Before They Were
by rae1478
Summary: A series of one-shots taken a month at a time from a month before the Gemma case (The Parts in the Sum of the Whole) through the Pilot from Booth's and Brennan's points of view. The show left us only clues as to what happened during that year. Rating is for occasional foul language and some references to adult activities.
1. July 2004

**July 2004**

"Hey Pops!" Seeley Booth bellowed from the front door as he let himself in his grandfather's house.

"Squirt! What are you doing here? I didn't hear your car pull up." Hank Booth was caught off-guard. Normally he could hear his grandson coming from a block away, his prized Camaro's engine seeing better days. He had risen from his easy chair to hug the man and now peered out the storm door to see a black, shiny new Toyota Sequoia.

"I was called out this way for a case but the guy who did it turned himself in before I could even get out here." Easy cases were nice but boring, Booth preferred the chase. "Thought I should swing by since I was out this way."

The senior narrowed his eyes, reading his boy. Deciding to enjoy the impromptu visit rather than harass the younger as to his true motivation, he moved back to his seat, turning off 'The Price is Right' as he did.

"How's Parker?" Safe topic.

"Great! Rebecca's letting me keep him overnight every other week. He's getting more and more words every time I see him!" The agent's face lit up as he sat on the sofa and began to brag on about his son. He might not get to see the boy often, but Parker was his pride as evidenced by the photos kept in his wallet.

"And how is Jennifer?" Girlfriend, still a safe topic.

"Crystal" Booth corrected.

"That the nurse?" Hank's brow crinkled in confusion.

"No, that was Jennifer. Good memory though." Booth's good mood continued, smiling at his ability to never be without a date.

Pops' looked up, closing his eyes briefly, attempting to store to memory this Crystal. No doubt the man had been blessed with a pretty face and oozed charm but Hank worried about his grandson's habits: worried over the parade of women he'd dated since his breakup with Rebecca. He might not have thought Rebecca was right for him, but at least there was stability in that relationship, while it had lasted.

"How is Crystal then?"

"Fine, last I heard," Booth said, trying to remain nonchalant.

"Last you heard?" Now Hank's concern began affecting his tone.

"Yeah, haven't seen her in a while. It's just casual." Booth could read his grandfather's worry and subconsciously began playing with a fray on the arm of the sofa.

"Just casual, huh? Your decision or hers?"

"… Mutual. She's pretty, she's fun, but I don't know. I think she'd want something more but she doesn't really like my hours."

"Work or gambling?"

Booth ignored that comment and continued on, "She's just a receptionist so she doesn't get the non 9-5 thing, y'know?"

"And what's wrong with being a receptionist?" Hank's eyebrows shot up. "You know your grandmother was a receptionist when I met her"

"That's not what I meant, Pops. She just doesn't understand working outside the hours of 9 to 5."

"Well you'd have more time if you didn't spend every waking moment outside work with your cards or cue."

"It's not every waking moment. I'm here right now, aren't I?"

Seeley was beginning to get defensive. Hank didn't want to push him to hard, but he was getting tired of pretending everything was nice, tired of walking on eggshells avoiding the topic. He leaned forward, ready to push, just a little bit.

"You're avoiding someone, aren't you?"

Scoffing, "Ha! I don't avoid…"

"How much do you owe?" Hank interrupted gruffly.

"I don't _owe_ him anything." Booth was adamant, it had been a _good_ week.

"Ah, so he's pissed. How much did you take from him?"

"Win. How much did I _win_ from him?" Said a little more harshly than he intended, Booth softened his voice while smirking, quite pleased with himself "Two grand. Tony just couldn't catch a break! _Which_ is why I am here." Booth pulled sixteen one-hundred dollar bills from his wallet and counted them over to his grandfather. "So now I only owe you $200."

Finally, the true reason for his visit. "And I'm not getting the last $200 right now because…?" Pulling his own wallet out, Hank tucked the money in his billfold. "I'm on a fixed income you know." Booth had insulted his late wife, though unintentionally, Hank felt no remorse in using guilt on his grandson now.

Booth lowered his voice with a touch of shame. "I need it for the rent."

"This is the last time I am loaning you any money. Rent or no rent, you're on your own. I refuse to _enable_ you with this gambling addiction you've got going on."

"Pops, it's not an addiction, it's… it's a hobby," he interjected. Seeley felt his defensiveness rise once more.

"No, it's an addiction, Seeley. A hobby is something you don't obsess over. You pretend you don't go often, but I know better. You spend every spare moment at the pool hall or at a game. You've lost your car…"

Sullenly, he mumbled, "Didn't need it anyway with my FBI wheels."

"You loved that car more than anything, don't you deny it. You skip seeing _me_ for poker games - I love you, boy, so I forgive you - you don't sleep nearly enough, the sunglasses aren't fooling me!" Hank paused for a breath, Seeley looked anywhere around the room but at his grandfather. "And we both know that if you prioritized work over cards, you'd have been promoted to a Senior Special Agent already. You're too proud to exaggerate your role in solving the cases you're on." Hank squinted as if reading his grandson. "I guess no one has been important enough to outweigh that thrill, not even yourself. He sighed dejectedly. "Someday you're going to meet 'the one' but you aren't going to deserve her."

"When does a man ever deserve a woman?" quipped Booth.

"I'm not joking squirt!" Hank was really riled up now. "You're going to find her and she won't want to have anything to do with you. What then? A life without love, family, what's it worth?" Hank just continued to stare at him while the younger man gathered his thoughts the next few seconds.

"How do you know, really? I mean… I thought maybe Rebecca could be 'the one'. But we all know how _that_ turned out." Booth was by now leaning forward, elbows on his knees, two tired hands holding his face up, eyes still not daring to look his grandfather in the face.

"But did you think you _knew_ she was the one? Or did you just think she _could_ be the one?" Hank challenged.

"Huh?"

"The first time you saw her… what were you thinking with? Your head? Heart? Intuition? Your balls?"

"Pops!" Booth stood quickly, embarrassed, and strode quickly to the kitchen filling a glass of water, hoping to cool his face.

Hank chuckled as he slowly followed to the doorframe of the kitchen; he knew he had discovered the truth. "Admit it Seeley. The first time you saw her, you just wanted to get her into bed and then see where things went after that, am I right?"

Booth stood silently leaning on the counter, head hanging, hands on either side of the sink. He hated when his pops could read straight through his poker face.

"I never was a fan of hers, she wasn't right for you. When you meet 'the one', you'll know." Hank turned to move back to his chair.

Quickly, Booth turned around. "How? How do you know?" Standing in the doorway, he was truly curious. It was all he'd ever wanted, a normal family with a wife and kids, but after Rebecca turned him down, he had lost faith that it could ever happen for him.

Sighing, Hank thought a moment. "You just do. Call it what you want: a feeling of fate, intuition, a gut feeling, Holy Spirit interference… You meet the woman you're supposed to spend the rest of your life with, you just know." He flipped the television back on, finished with the conversation. He had known within five minutes of meeting his wife that she was the one and knew that feeling wasn't something that could be explained, but he knew his boy could read people, he knew he followed his gut feelings, he knew he would know when he found his match.

* * *

Dr. Temperance Brennan stepped inside the storefront doubling tonight as an art exhibit. Just a small showing featuring three local artists. Her presentation on de-fleshing techniques was mostly complete even with three weeks until her speaking engagement at American University. Brennan had heard about the art show from Dr. Goodman who thought she might appreciate the stylings of one Robert Rastoff who specialized in photography of archeological sites.

The space was efficiently designed with Robert and a second photographer, Kirk Persinger, splitting the front room with a temporary screen dividing the space and a third artist set up in a smaller back room.

"Just imagine the gardens tended by the women and children behind the houses." Rastoff snuck up on Brennan, startling her out of her examination of the picture. "Imagine the smells, the fire, a delicious wild boar turning on the spit," he continued, leering at her, eyeing her up and down without embarrassment.

Brennan relaxed just as quickly as she had jumped when she realized this average looking man must be the photographer himself. He had moderately defined musculature but standing two inches shorter than herself, she assessed instantly that her martial arts skills would keep any unwanted advances from proceeding too far.

Keeping her eyes on the piece, she interrupted him. "The olfactory sense would be overwhelmed with too many other aromas to appreciate any pleasure that might be derived from the scent of a meal cooking. The scent of the fecal matter and urine alone would have been unconducive to the enjoyment we would derive in today's day and age." She had visited this exact site during her graduate studies and had better photos of her own at home to prove it. "Furthermore…"

The man to her right opened and closed his mouth a few times during this speech and excused himself quickly to avoid a further lecture which would only prove himself uneducated in his chosen subject.

Offended at the artists' lack of knowledge of his own subject, Brennan shrugged half-heartedly and continued to the other side of the exhibit. Luckily, this photographer wasn't there that evening so she was able to analyze, scrutinize and evaluate his work in peace while he remained in New Mexico, blissfully unaware of the critique he was earning on the other side of the country.

Discreetly, a smiling brunette woman sidled next to Brennan. Friendly, but gently so as to _not_ surprise the observer, she inquired, "like what you see?"

"It's satisfactory. His spatial composition is quite impressive but I find my interest is gone quickly without more stimuli in the piece." The black and white desert-scape was nice but wasn't especially noteworthy to the anthropologist who had seen more and experienced more in person.

Brennan passed through to the back room leaving behind the brunette woman who had been tapped on the shoulder by Rastoff.

Immediately, she was arrested in place, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. _Why didn't I begin in here? It would have saved me the expense of irritation at the very least._ Three large oil paintings hung, each a different scene: a young boy and girl chasing each other, a closeup of a man and woman about to kiss, and a family of five laughing as they walked along a grove holding hands.

"Amazing…" she murmured to herself, allowing her eyes to scan each piece thoughtfully. "She must have altered a photograph and done a print to get this level of accuracy," Brennan continued, dismissively to herself, moving closer to look for specific brush strokes.

"Nope!" A bright voice from the same brunette woman stood behind her. Grinning broadly that this stranger was doubtful of the painting being more than a printout of a digitally modified photograph, she admitted proudly, "I could do that, make computer generated prints that look like paintings, but these ones are straight from my brain to paper."

Brennan stood up straight and turned to look at her intruder "That would be impossible." Ever the literalist, Brennan developed a crease between her brows. "Your brain may have imagined the scene but it would also involve your nervous system transmitting signals to your arms and hands and fingers to put the paint on the canvas. Not to mention the muscular system…"

The artist chuckled cutting her off. "You got me there. I'm Angela Montenegro, starving artist."

The women shook hands. "Dr. Temperance Brennan, forensic anthropologist."

"Ooooookay, I don't know what that is, but thanks for coming out to the show tonight." Angela paused but continued quickly when she saw her companion open her mouth, fearing what would no doubt be a lengthy soliloquy of what a… whatever she was, did. "What made you think these were just prints?" Angela veered the topic of conversation towards the art, something she knew she'd understand.

"The formations of the bodies. The symmetry of the bodies, the flex of the muscles… You have an extraordinary command of the underlying structure of the human form. I can very easily imagine the skeletons under these painted bodies and the structures of those bones are accurate to normal human formation."

"You can _see_ the bones," Angela half stated, half questioned. She looked at the anthropologist skeptically.

"Not literally, but I can imagine what the structure of the bones _would_ be based on the indicators you have painted. Quite often, unless an artist is copying from a picture or has a model sitting for a portrait, they often over or under accentuate particular areas of bodies depending on the scene. Your paintings are of people moving so I know it wasn't a model posing for you." Brennan stopped to allow Angela a chance to explain her process, but Angela was stuck between skepticism and confusion.

Brennan grabbed Angela's wrist gently, pulling her to the picture of the children running. "Here, come see. The height of these figures corresponds in a nearly one to one ratio to the fingertip to fingertip ratio. And here," dragging her to the family holding hands, "the hand to forearm ratio taken in combination with the thumb to hand ratio is stunning. I can imagine exactly how ulna and radius come together with the scaphoid, lunate and triquetral to bend just that way," she indicated toward the painting.

"So I know my body ratios. Hardly an accomplishment for someone trained in art."

Glancing sidelong at Angela, Brennan continued. "Where I was most impressed, was in your faces." She pulled them to stand squarely in front of the center painting. "This is incredible. The orbital sockets of the man are elongated circles while those of the woman are round. The man's nasal aperture is long and narrow with a high nasal bone, the woman's aperture is less pronounced and her nasal bone is much lower. Don't you see?" The scientist was getting excited as she listed off the "imagined" characteristics of the bone structures under the painted faces. "You've drawn a Caucasian male with an Asian woman. Each has the conventional underlying bone features correlating to the genealogical background you have given them."

Angela turned to face Brennan. "So what you're saying is that the bone structures you see match up with the skin color?" A new look of pride crossed her face and she stood a little taller, crossing her arms across her chest, taking another look at her own pieces.

"Precisely." Brennan smiled a full smile, her first since entering the art show, glad to have run into someone who could understand her, even without an educational background in medicine, biology or anthropology.

"What else do you see?"


	2. August 2004

**Author Note:** Thank you to those who left reviews or messages. They meant more to me than I expected them to. If anyone has a better idea for the genre, I'm welcome to suggestions. I am also curious on reader preferences: do you appreciate this double POV per chapter? Or would you rather each POV per month get its own chapter?

Also, everyone seems to include the disclaimer that the characters are not their own. Some fantastically creative people in Charlotte, NC/Montreal and Hollywood get that credit and my thanks for giving me many sleepless nights, anxious for completely fictional "people".This disclaimer applies to all chapters so I don't waste everyone's time.

* * *

 **August 2004**

"Shit". Booth mumbled to himself as he rested his head in one hand leaning on the bar, while his other rolled his lucky poker chip between his fingers. "Shit, shit, shit." He knew. Damn it, he knew and Pops was right. He didn't deserve her. He had met 'the one', he had kissed 'the one', and he had somehow pissed off 'the one'.

Everything she spat at him before she stormed out of the FBI headquarters had been true, at least on some level. He _did_ use his badge and gun to intimidate, _but only suspects and assholes, never a woman_. Normally, the bravado was a huge turn-ON for women. Why was she pissed? She could hold it over his head that she solved the murder instead of him. He couldn't have intimidated her, could he? _I mean, c'mon! She just kissed me the other night._

 _Man that was a damn good kiss._ He closed his eyes, a hint of a smile touching his lips briefly as he remembered the last time he walked out of that same bar. He opened his eyes, tossed back the last of his beer and ordered a second. _That kiss._ This was serious. He needed more of those kisses, he needed _her_.

He had to figure out how to get her to forgive him. Which would require him to figure out _why_ she was _so_ angry with first, he needed to show he deserved her: he needed to get his gambling addiction under control.

The bartender delivered his drink as Caroline Julian arrived and recognized his slumped shoulders from behind.

"That does not look like the face of a man who just caught a cold case murderer, a judge no less!"

"Hrmph" He gave her a sideways glance as she approached before turning back to his beer. He was not in the mood for company, even if it was Caroline.

Caroline's eyebrows quirked, rather taken aback at his lack of enthusiasm. "How are you not happy, cher? I hear there's a possible promotion in it for you. It's about damn time, too."

"Yeah, yeah, it's great." He glowered at his poker chip as he continued fidgeting with it between his hands. He had more important things on his mind than how to charm Caroline this evening. "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"You are as predictable as you are loyal." Caroline sat on the stool next to Booth and set her briefcase on top of the bar before admitting, "Agent Burns told me you come here after wrapping up a case. Though he said you normally go with the whole team. Where's the team?" Caroline looked around for Dr. Brennan or the flaky artist or anyone else who looked like they belonged in a lab.

"Remind me to thank Charlie for that," Booth grumbled to himself before addressing Caroline. "I am _not_ going to go out for drinks with a bunch of nerdy squints." There was no way he'd choose to surround himself with a group of intellectuals who would spend the entire evening talking over his head.

A grumpy Booth was turning the attorney into a disgruntled Caroline. "Suit yourself. No need to get quarrelsome at me just because…"

"She's pissed at me, ok?" Booth spun to look at her as he cut her off midsentence, highly unlike him when it came to the intimidating woman next to him.

"And she's the only person who's ever had a beef with you?" Caroline sassed back. She may have a soft spot for the agent but she did not care to take the brunt of his nasty attitude.

"No, but…"Booth sighed heavily. He was _not_ going to admit that he had a thing for the anthropologist. Not to Caroline, not to _any_ one. It was bad enough everyone had found out when Rebecca had rejected him. He was not going to set himself up for another round of gloating pity if the charming agent was humiliated again.

Caroline allowed him a few moments to gather his thoughts before prodding, "But what?"

"Nothing. Just nothing." He gave a small shake of the head and went back to nursing his beer. Booth couldn't get the anthropologist out of his mind. Setting the drink down, he cradled the bottle in his hands choosing his words carefully before he turned towards Caroline. "It's just… Bones… she's just _so_ smart. I mean, stupid smart. We never would have gotten Hasty without her."

"So _that's_ what this is about. Did your ego take a hit when you needed someone else? Pull on your big boy pants, Seeley, because it won't be the last time you'll need someone's help." Her pursed lips told him that if he argued, he was in for a verbal smack down.

Turning back to the bar, he rubbed his cheek where she had slapped him. "I took a hit alright."

"She hit you? Did you take her in for assaulting a federal officer? Is that why she's angry with you?" Caroline knew he could take care of himself, but anyone assaulting law enforcement made her blood boil.

"No." He surprised both of them with the force of his voice. Fearing he was going to give himself away, he played it cool. "I've gotten hit worse before. Plus, if I arrested her, then she'd _really_ never work with me again."

Caroline eyed him suspiciously. "Good. Just think how that would look when we go to trial and my arresting agent has a restraining order against my forensic expert. Which leads me to why I was coming to find you. _Mr._ Hasty was arraigned in court today. So far he has chosen to waive his right to a speedy trial. Court date will likely be set late fall or early winter. Guess his defense needs as much time as they can get to try to find their reasonable doubt."

"That won't happen. Bones' evidence is airtight." For not knowing this woman for long, he trusted her skills more than he had dared trust anyone else on a case before.

"You know that and I know that. Just have to give them time to figure it out for themselves. They think they'll find something and get a lesser charge. We might get a plea bargain out of him, yet." Caroline paused, she was still baffled by his earlier comments. "What do you mean _really_ never work with you again? Why do you care so much what she and a bunch of boring scientists think anyway?" She could think of two reasons her favorite agent would care, but only one had any effect on her own life. Caroline wanted Dr. Brennan in her corner as well, as tactless as the woman was, it was plain to see how valuable she would be to solving cases and providing indisputable proof in court.

Still choosing his words carefully lest he slip up, he responded deliberately. "Yeah well, like I said, she was the only reason we got Hasty and I don't know why she's so pissed at me."

Booth drained his second beer as Caroline stood up and pulled her briefcase down. "Don't you worry, cher. No one can stay mad at your pretty face for too long. I've got to go, but make sure you take a cab if you keep going at those beers the way you have been."

With a smirk, he stood and pulled a few bills from his wallet while attempting a feeble joke, "Nah, this is my last one. Can't be showing up at my first Gambler's Anonymous meeting hammered or they'll think I'm at the wrong meeting."

Caroline was unamused. "Mmhmmm. Well, I don't know what finally got you to pull your head out of your derriere, but I'm glad you're getting your act together. Have a good meeting." She hoped he would be able to stay away from the tables. Heaven only knew how badly hurt he'd end up if he continued gambling.

"Goodnight Caroline." Booth opened the door for her and they parted on the sidewalk.

Relieved that Caroline couldn't read him as well as his grandfather could, Booth shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged down the street toward his meeting. _Pops was right. Damnit, why didn't I believe him?!_ He _was_ going to deserve her. He'd prove it if it took a decade.

* * *

Angela was the first to crawl out of her office, scanning her badge to join Zach on the platform where he was absorbed in the examination of an unidentified skeleton for his boss.

She stood next to the assistant for a few moments, trying to discretely peer down into Brennan's office windows from the platform. Keeping her eyes below, she leaned toward the young man to ask, "Does she get like this often?"

Without raising his head, Zach posited, "If by that you mean have I witnessed this behavior more than once? No."

"Any idea what she's angry about?" The artist tried to entice Zach into some gossip, but still his eyes remained glued to a bone he was analyzing under a magnifying glass.

"I'm a scientist, I don't speculate. If you want to know, why don't you just ask her?"

"You don't just go up to a person and ask them, 'hey, why are you pissed off?'" Hodgins ambled out from his office grumpily, swiping his badge up the steps to use the higher powered microscopes available on the platform. Angela smirked in agreement.

"Why not?"

Hodgins looked at him incredulously as he set down his tray of slides and crossed his arms. "You don't have much experience with women, do you?"

Zach finally looked up to face the other two though he still held the scapula with both hands. "I have plenty of experience with women. There's Naomi from paleontology, I have four sisters not to mention my mother; however, I don't understand them at all and they think I'm weird." His face contorted as he internally processed the thought.

"I don't think anyone understands you." Jack Hodgins sat on the stool at the microscope and began his prep.

"Don't listen to him Zach." Angela patted the younger man's shoulder as she shot Jack a warning sidelong glance. "I'm learning you have to be at least a little weird to fit in here."

Looking in the microscope, Hodgins suggested, "You're a woman, why don't you talk to her?" This new woman may be hot, but she was annoying him right now, taking Zach's side.

"You've known Brennan longer." Angela argued back, crossing her arms in defiance.

"We've worked together longer!" Jack's head popped up, raising his voice and putting his hands on his hips in exasperation. Shaking his head he went back to work as he continued ranting, "That doesn't mean we _talk_. At least not about anything more than ancient remains and spores."

"We've also talked about putrefaction, pollen and larvae." Three heads shot around to face a stormy Dr. Brennan. Silence ensued, fearful she had heard them discussing her temperament, until she explained curtly. "I heard my name. Who needed to talk to me?" Her eyes were irritated and her lips pressed in a thin line: her earlier foul mood had definitely not dissipated.

Zach was the first to move and speak. "I did. I see radiating fractures on the left scapula as well as fractures along ribs two through five indicative of a high fall. However, there are some marks on the skull I cannot identify that are not congruent to the other fractures. They look like pitting but the pattern is nothing I recognize." Brennan had moved to join him next to the magnifying glass as she pulled on a pair of gloves, already a new habit.

She took the skull from Zach's hands and looked closely before remarking, "Those markings are from the person's hair plugs. If you are suspecting a high fall, please check the lower extremities for hairline fractures as well."

"Yes, Dr. Brennan," and the assistant immediately was lost in concentration on the bones in front of him again.

Snapping off her gloves, she began to march brusquely back toward her office.

Angela took a risk, following her a few steps, stopping her with, "Sweetie, are you alright? You seem very… angry. You were like this when you came in, too."

"I'm fine Angela." Brennan tried to fix her features to appear more pleasant but never made it better than apathy.

"You're a little scary when you're 'fine'." Angela's eyebrows were high and eyes wide. "Come find me if you decide you want to talk about whatever it is with a friend." She patted her friend's arm and started slowly gliding away.

"Booth grabbed my arm and pushed me out of the room while we were talking to the victim's mother." It spilled out unintentionally. Her fists clenched at the memory. "He said… you know what, it doesn't matter what he said. He's lucky I only slapped him, I could have knocked him to the ground if I'd wanted to. I am never working with that jackass again."

The artist's jaw hung open, the image of her petite friend being violent shocking her into silence.

Jack ended the silence with indignant whining. "No more homicide investigations? Come on, Dr. Brennan, think of the rest of us."

"Says the one who was _not_ hit with a bat." Zach interjected from behind his magnifier.

"Dr. Hodgins, your job is identifying pollen, spores, insects and dirt for the Jeffersonian." Brennan used her best boss voice to remind the man of his role at the museum.

"Soil." Hodgins stood up to face his boss, matching her in anger. "How many times do I have to repeat myself? It's not dirt, it's SOIL."

"Attitude Dr. Hodgins. Our job is not solving murders. If you'd prefer that, go apply for a job at the FBI."

Jack Hodgins scowled, retreating back to his office, snapping the rubber band around his wrist along the way, forgetting entirely about his slides at the microscope.

The women watched him off the platform before Brennan charged off to her office. Angela took a deep breath to steel her resolve, and followed her to her office.

"So…" she alerted the scientist to her presence. "Rough morning? She stood next to the desk waiting patiently for a reply.

Keeping her eyes on her computer monitor she finally responded after an awkward length of time. "Ange, I would really prefer not to talk about it."

"Sweetie, you are so stressed. Even I can see it and I barely know you." The concern on her face melted away as she got an idea. "Come clubbing with me tomorrow night! I know this great place where the beer is cheap and the music is loud. We'll meet some guys, maybe get a little action. It'll make all your stress fly away." She leaned on the arm of a chair hopefully.

"I don't know about a club. Most of those places don't open until I want to go to bed. Though…" Brennan's words trailed off as she began searching her desk.

Disappointed, Angela was curious nonetheless and had to ask, "What are you looking for Bren?"

"Aha!" She held a business card up in triumph. "You're right, I need a date," and without further explanation, picked up her phone receiver and dialed the phone number from the card.

"Dr. Holgate, this is Dr. Brennan."… "I have been better."… "The reason I'm calling is I've decided to accept your offer for a date."… "My calendar is pretty full. Why don't you e-mail me the optional dates and I will get back to you."… "Thank you. See you then." She turned to her screen and began working again immediately.

Angela's mouth hung open and she blinked a few times, flabbergasted at Brennan's method of accepting a date. "What the hell was that? No flirting, no small talk. It was almost like a business transaction!"

Eyes never leaving her work, the scientist responded, "Anthropologically speaking, relationships…"

"No anthropological whatever. Who was that anyway?" Angela smirked and shifted her body to lean over the desk conspiratorially.

"Dr. Peter Holgate. He's a physicist I met at a speaking engagement a few weeks ago. He's been asking me out repeatedly and I just now decided to accept. Thank you for the good advice Angela." Brennan gave her friend a brief small smile.

"Not quite sure why, but you're welcome?" Angela faltered before shuffling sideways out the door, back towards her new office. At least Brennan's mood had improved.


	3. September 2004

**September 2004**

As a baby, Rebecca had nursed and refused to let Parker take a bottle. Booth swore it was just so he couldn't have any overnight visits. Booth's visits were completely at Rebecca's whim: at her home, at her appointed times, and when Parker wasn't feeding or napping. He handled his frustration at never getting time with his newborn by agreeing to 'just one more assignment' with the Rangers to neutralize some top Al-Qaeda figures. It had been a rash and dangerous decision. Looking back, he wished he had never gone and left his three-month old behind. Rebecca weaned almost as soon as Booth was out of the country.

When Booth came home, Parker was almost a year old. Rebecca let him have more daytime visits but fell back on the pretext that she didn't know what kind of PTSD he might have come home with; she wanted to be certain the warzone hadn't taken too much of a toll on him psychologically. He took the "babysitting" (as Rebecca called the plan) out of desperation for time with his baby boy; but he was the father. Fathers don't babysit, they parent.

Finally, when Parker turned two, Rebecca's excuses were too thin for even her reasoning and she began letting Parker spend a night with Booth every other week. But now, now Seeley Booth was ecstatic. Rebecca had been put on an assignment which took her out of town and he had convinced his ex to leave their almost four-year-old Parker with him for five straight nights. Booth took vacation time from the bureau to make the most of his time with his mini-me. His latest cold case was going nowhere and that sexy scientist hadn't returned his calls for assistance yet. Without gambling ruling his timetable, there had been trips to visit Pops, playtime of 'going to the zoo' with Parker's stuffed animals, and lots of time at the playground. There had, of course, been the typical tantrums to contend with, and a blander-than-average diet to meet the picky palate requirements of the small boy who found black pepper "too spicy", but the proud daddy wouldn't have traded it for all the pie in the world, this precious time with his boy. Maybe after this, Rebecca would even let him start having Parker two nights, instead of just one!

Unhappily, Rebecca's flight had landed an hour ago and was expected to arrive at any moment. Booth had scoured his apartment to find every last stuffed animal. Parker's bags sat by the front door as they relaxed, reading a story until mommy arrived. A knock at the door signaled the end of their cherished extended visit.

The Booths looked at each other. "Who's here bub?" Big Booth gave Parker a smile though he was far from happy to have Parker leave, but as much as it hurt living apart from his son, watching Rebecca take him away time after time, he refused to let Parker see him be bitter towards his mother. He refused to be the one to put a child in the middle of two parents who only barely tolerated each other at the moment.

"Mommy!" The young boy ran enthusiastically to the door while the elder strode alongside, easily keeping up with only slightly larger than normal steps.

His smile faltered slightly at the impending good-bye as he opened the door. "Hey Reb… Tony, what are you doing here?" The small smile he had kept on his face for Parker's sake disappeared completely and the boy hid behind his father's leg at the sight of the strange man on the other side of the door.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" The man had bags under his eyes and smelled thick of cigarette smoke. Booth did not appreciate his former gambling buddy showing up at his door unannounced, especially when it was clear that Tony had come straight from some marathon gaming.

Parker scurried around the corner while his father kept his hands on either side of the doorframe, effectively blocking Tony from seeing too far into the apartment. Booth's voice went low, keeping a cautioning calm and steady tone. "Again, what are you doing here, Tony?"

The man smirked, "We haven't seen you around in a long time. I thought maybe we could… catch up." Tony had a naturally loud and boisterous voice, but having imbibed in a few drinks before showing up, his volume had ratcheted up a couple notches.

"Now's not a good time, I have my son right now." Booth's voice was firm and clear as he silently thanked the good Lord above that Parker was there to help him stay strong against the urge he felt calling him.

Tony's smirk increased as he tried to duck under and push past Booth's braced arms. "This won't take long. Just play a couple games so I can win back my two g's and I'll get out of your hair."

"I don't gamble anymore Tony, you know that." Booth let go of the doorframe to gently push Tony back into the hall.

"Pshaw, yeah, I've heard that before. C'mon, just one game: blackjack" Tony's smirk disappeared as he pushed Booth's shoulders, trying again to gain entrance to the apartment.

"That's how you lost the money in the first place. I don't gamble anymore." There was no way Booth was going to let Tony, inebriated, into his home while Parker was there. He shoved Tony back at the shoulders, a little more forcefully.

"C'mon Seeley. Just one game. Your choice," as he tried, yet again by plowing his body into Booth's strong frame. His desperation was creating a raucous as the agent continued to hold him back.

"Let it go Tony. I am not going in again. You need to leave. Now." Booth practically growled at the other man.

"Don't push me, man. I _need_ a win." His desperation was growing more and more irrational with each attempt past the former Ranger.

"And I said no. My kid is here and you are drunk." A few doors down the hall opened as nosy neighbors checked to see what was going on, closing just as quickly when they saw the two men sizing each other up.

"Then give me back my money" Tony shouted angrily and took as swing at Booth just as Rebecca came around the corner from the elevator. Tony's fist hit the sconce on the wall as Booth dodged the blow easily, sending the smashed glass fixture to the ground. Before the furious man could realize his hand was cut, Booth subdued him against the wall, forcing the man's bloody hands above his head.

Rebecca's jaw dropped staring at the melee in front of her, too stunned to speak for a moment, until she noticed Parker in the doorway. Immediately, he slackened jaw tensed and her eyes burned with hatred as she realized her ex had just gotten into a fist fight in front of their son.

"Mommy!" Parker ran to Rebecca, oblivious to the broken glass between them

"Rebecca!" Booth hadn't noticed her arrival until the young Booth's greeting. In his surprise, he let go of Tony.

Booth opened his mouth to explain but was cut off. "Save it Seeley…"

Tony took full advantage of Booth's momentary distraction and sucker punched him with a hard right hook across the jaw sending his former gambling foe to stumble back into the wall himself, now with blood splattered across his cheek. Without another work, Tony skulked his way around Rebecca to leave down the stairs, all the while shaking out his hand, dripping blood along the way.

An irate silence lasted five seconds before Booth suddenly had two voices shouting at him.

"How could you?" from the blond lawyer with a small boy clinging to her legs, and "I should have known it would be you," from Mrs. Cho, the building manager who had opened her door during the preceding silence. Parker began to cry and both women continued yelling over each other leaving Booth frantically trying to sooth three people, each upset for different reasons.

"Parker, let's go," Rebecca walked around Booth to his door, picking up her son's bags.

Too much was going on at once, Booth's head bouncing between the three other. He prioritized the issues. "Becca, wait! Parker, the mean man is gone now, we're all okay." He reached one hand out to pat his son's cheek while the other extended stopping the third woman from stepping closer. "Mrs. Cho, can this wait?"

Rebecca's fury was far worse than Booth had ever seen in her before. "I cannot believe you exposed our son to this kind of behavior. And don't you 'Becca' me. You lost that right a long time ago."

Mrs. Cho ignored him and continued on anyway, "I'm sorry Mr. Booth, but I am going to evict you. This cannot happen in my nice building. Look, there is blood on my floor!" Realizing she was not being heard, the landlady returned to her own apartment, shutting the door.

Finally able to focus all his attention on one person, Booth did what he never wanted to do: he fought with the mother of his child, in front of his child. "Seriously, this was not my fault, he came at me! What, am I supposed to let him in with Parker around? Let him punch me without defending myself?"

"Seeley, you exposed _my_ son to violence, I refuse to stand for that." Booth winces at her use of 'my' versus 'our' as Rebecca continued raving, "As far as I'm concerned, I don't think I can let you see Parker for a while."

Shock radiated through every fiber of his body as he plead, "Rebecca, please…"

"A long while." She glowered another moment at Seeley before saying more gently to the boy, "Give daddy a hug good-bye Parker, we need to go."

Booth crouched low to hoist his son up into the biggest bear hug, whispering in his ear, "I _will_ see you later bub. I love you. Don't ever forget that. You're my number one, got it?"

"Bye daddy." Parker kissed his father's clean cheek, eyes watering while Booth set him down gently. Head drooping, Parker took Rebecca's hand and walked quietly back to the elevators with his mother.

As soon as Parker was gone, Booth slapped his palm against the doorframe before falling against the wall, hands running through his hair, staring at the air where the boy had just been. Had he really just lost his visitation rights? He couldn't afford a lawyer to take Rebecca to court, even if he thought he had a chance, but what judge in their right mind would grant him any custody when they found out about his history of fights, not to mention his dangerous job.

The hallway's ominous peace signaled Mrs. Cho to reappear with the promised eviction letter; the agent accepted the letter without seeing. As soon as the paper touched his hands, it spurred his mind to redirect to the petite woman standing resolutely in front of him.

"Mrs. Cho please, it won't happen again." With an actual eviction notice in hand, his already reeling mind was sent spiraling. "I've always paid my rent on time, and you can take the damages out of my security deposit." In the past, he had always been able to use his charm smile to change Mrs. Cho's mind, gain some more time, but his brain had overloaded with issues and was too muddled to attempt anything other than desperate begging.

"I'm sorry Mr. Booth. Your security deposit has already been used on other repairs caused by… disputes you bring back here." Mrs. Cho was tender but firm, choosing her words carefully. "You are a nice man, but you have brought too many conflicts from your gambling to the building."

Shocked that she was aware of the cause behind his arguments, Booth stammered, "My gambling?"

"I hear every fight in here. Cards, horses, pool… I'm not stupid. I can put two and two together."

"Of course not, Mrs. Cho. I didn't mean to imply… I'll pay extra for the damages then. I quit gambling last month! My lease is up at the end of the year, I'll be as quiet as a mouse until then…" Booth was grasping at straws.

Resolutely, she interrupted him. "No Mr. Booth. You have 30 days to move out. I'm sorry." With a look of regret, she returned to her apartment and closed the door leaving Booth dumbfounded. _Shit, quitting gambling was supposed to make my life better, not make it worse!_

* * *

"Wow." Peter grinned dumbly at his bed partner. He hadn't expected a first date with the hyper-rational Dr. Temperance Brennan to end with her in his bed.

Brennan smiled back. "Thank you, I needed that." She had found her biological urges becoming more and more unrelenting as their dinner conversation had progressed, until she practically pushed Peter out of the restaurant and into his car to go back to his apartment. Now the deed was over, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, scanning the room for her scattered articles of clothing.

Peter rolled to his side and began to watch Brennan dress. How this amazing, beautiful woman had accepted a date with him, he could hardly fathom. As great as their physical connection had been, he couldn't think about anything else to talk about. He defaulted back to their dinner conversation. "Tell me more about this case you solved."

"The one I told you about at dinner tonight?"

Peter chuckled under his breath. "Is there another one? I still can't believe you got an agent to let you out of the lab. And don't they have their own forensics lab?"

"They do, but the FBI forensics team is so backed up, they don't have time to revisit evidence of an old case without anything new. The agent was only working on it as a courtesy to the victim's mother. As for taking me out of the lab, he really had no choice since it wasn't an active crime scene and the FBI lab techs didn't have the time or the expertise to know what to look for."

"So will you be working with the FBI again?" Peter suspected the adrenaline rush of homicide work was an aphrodisiac to this amazing woman. He could only imagine her prowess in the bedroom if solving crimes became a regular occurrence.

"No." Brennan's voice was soaked with vehemence. "As much satisfaction as I derived from catching a murderer, I found the agent who worked with me to be an insufferable, arrogant man." Brennan finished zipping her skirt and strode out of the bedroom.

Peter stood with the sheet wrapped around his waist and followed her out to the living room. "Oh come on, he couldn't be that bad. I've met your coworker Dr. Hodgins before – now _he_ does not seem like a pleasant man. This agent… what's-his-name."

"Booth" she instantly supplied while she began putting her boots on.

"Booth. He can't be worse that Dr. Hodgins."

"Dr. Hodgins is working on his attitude with anger management classes. Additionally, he's the only other scientist at the Jeffersonian who has three doctorates like I have. His expertise has proven itself invaluable in some of our finds. I respect his work and he respects mine, therefore we get along just fine." Brennan finished zipping her second boot and stood erect by the door, ready to leave.

Peter handed his date her light shawl. "Well if this Agent Booth is worse, then…"

Brennan cut him off curtly, "he isn't worth the time to talk about him." The stern expression on her face made it clear that she was not going to be goaded into further conversation. Her expression relaxed when Peter put a hand up in surrender, the other continuing to grip the sheet.

"Thank you for the lovely evening." With one last chaste peck for her date, Brennan turned and left his apartment, ready for the fifteen minute walk back to her own apartment. The comfortable evening air was ideal for analyzing the date.

It had started off decent enough. Living so near one another, they had agreed to meet at a restaurant between their places. He was easy to talk to in the sense that he, too was a scientist. She could speak utilizing scientific terminology without either his eyes glazing over from polite boredom.

She learned he was a theoretical physicist. He didn't analyze anything tangible, nothing that she could see on a table in front of her like her skeletal remains, but still, it was a true science with facts and proofs and formulas so she could accept and respect it without understanding it entirely. Come to think of it, she really didn't know anything else about him.

After he described what he did, he had asked for more details of her job. Surprising herself, instead of talking about her caseload of World War I remains, humanitarian work identifying remains in war-torn countries, or even illustrations from her teaching lectures at the university, she had instead gone into detail of the case she had worked on with the Booth the month previous. While she had assisted on a few criminal investigations in the past through the university, this case with the broad-shouldered agent had been stimulating. Being face-to-face with suspects and analyzing non-tangible evidence had opened her eyes to a new world. She knew she hadn't bored Peter: he had even interrupted her at one point to tell her how interesting the tale was.

It was a good story. Thrilling to live through and exciting still even in retelling. Was it the work that had gotten her blood pumping more violently through her veins? Or was it her natural physical reaction to the extremely good looking agent who had come asking for help? They would have been highly compatible sexually, if only they hadn't gotten drunk. It would not have been a successful evening had they gone home together. Biologically speaking, she would have been fine, but the charming agent would have probably succumbed to… what did Angela call it again? Beer dick? Limp dick? Oh yes, whiskey dick.

Brennan smirked to herself, remembering _that kiss,_ her body involuntarily reacting to the memory _._ The pride of that man, thinking he would be able to pleasure her after imbibing in a few too many. The smirk gave way as her jaw tensed, remembering his condescension. The conceit of that man, thinking he could call her 'Bones' just because he wanted to. The arrogance of that man to fire her just for defending herself. The egotism of that man assuming he knew anything about her. She glowered at nothing in particular as she let herself into her apartment and slammed the door.

In fifteen minutes, she had gone from a high off the sex-fueled endorphins down to a hate-filled low. It has been a good date tonight! It had ended in good sex! Why in the world was she thinking about Booth? How had her mood had been fouled by a man who wasn't even present tonight.

Brennan stomped her way to the kitchen to fill a glass with water and noticed her answering machine had one new message; her attitude instantly lightened. Apparently her date had also thought it had gone well if he was leaving her a message so soon after she had left.

Pushing the play button, a female voice sounded instead. "Hey Bren, it's me, Angela. Just being a good friend and making sure you're getting home safe from your date tonight. But seeing as you're not home it was either a really, _really_ good date and or he's hurt you in which case I'll kill him. Just give me a call so I know you're home safe!"

Brennan smiled again: she liked having a friend in the world who cared about her enough to check in. She quickly dialed Angela's number, her anger evaporated.

"Hey lucky lady," the artist's voice purred without hello. "I'm assuming you got laid tonight and that's why you're just getting home now."

"Thank you for checking in on me, but you know I can take care of myself. I'm assuming you were more curious about how the date went than my safety."

Angela laughed, "How well you know me." Thinking Brennan would answer the question without being asked, Angela paused, but with no answer forthcoming, she probed "So… how was he?"

"It was fine."

The artist expected a little more than three measly words. "Fine, just fine? You got some action tonight, didn't you? Was he that bad in bed?"

"No, he had some decent technique. I left quite satisfied." Without any enthusiasm, Brennan gave a slight account of what had been a good night, though she sounded bored, even to herself.

"So why are you sounding like you didn't get what you wanted?"

Brennan sighed, ready to be done and go to bed even though she could not stop thinking. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just tired. I just can't stop ruminating over the Gemma Arrington case tonight."

"Hmm." Angela knew this feeling well. It struck often, especially when she was in a particularly creative kind of way. "You know Bren, sometimes late at night when I get an idea for a painting, I can't sleep until I get up and do a quick sketch of it. Maybe if you wrote down the parts of the case you keep thinking about, your brain will be able to turn off."

"I don't think you understand how the brain works." She squeezed her eyes shut in weariness. "It is impossible for your brain to turn off unless you are dead."

Always literal, Angela shook her head on the other end of the phone and smirked, "Slang sweetie. Just give it a shot. We can talk about your date more tomorrow. Goodnight Bren."

"Night Ange."

Brennan rolled her eyes and she put the phone back in its place. Angela meant well, but what would be the point of writing down the case again when all the case notes were already in binders? Nevertheless, she found herself sitting at her laptop, staring at a blank word document when Peter's words at dinner came back to her. _"You're very good at storytelling."_

If Angela was right, it would help calm her mind to let her fall asleep. The case had been very interesting, why couldn't the steps to solving the murder be put into book form? Plus, with her expertise, the science aspects would be written correctly! Perhaps she could get a small company to publish it and she could send copies to police departments and crime labs across the country, give them a better understanding of what forensic anthropologists could do in conjunction with cops.

Brennan was getting excited at the idea. _Why not? It will give me something to do outside the lab at least until my next lecture in November. I'll give myself 30 days to get a draft together. It can't be a specific case – I can't afford to get sued – but I know the science well enough, it won't take too much research…_ Brennan grabbed a legal pad and started pulling together an outline of plot, characters, et cetera. If it were done correctly, it might even be something entertaining to read, but it had to have the same level of excitement she had felt while she was part of the real murder investigation.

What started as an idea to allow her body to relax enough to fall asleep quickly became the reason she never went to bed.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for taking the time to read. I'd love to hear your thoughts: good, bad or ugly.


	4. October 2004

**A/N:** Sorry to those of you who have figured out my posting schedule. I'm a few hours late on my personal deadline. I don't have a good excuse. I was bowling.

These one-shots are somewhat of an exercise for me in staying consistent with our beloved show. If you find something that you think doesn't run true to the show, please let me know. If something I write contradicts the show (which I discovered my November chapter initially did), I want to fix it. My husband says I'm crazy. Maybe so. Let me know.

* * *

 **October 2004**

The week had barely begun and Booth's opinion of it was dismal. It was only midday Tuesday and already Booth was annoyed by everything. Deputy Director Cullen had dropped another colder-by-the-minute file on his desk first thing Monday morning and although Booth already had a new lead, the new agent assigned to assist him was incompetent. Tracking down original witnesses and the new suspect was not going as smoothly as he would have liked. Yet again, Dr. Brennan wasn't returning his messages though that wasn't unexpected after all the other unreturned calls and to top it all off, he still hadn't found a new apartment.

His eviction date loomed. Booth was not one to be intimidated but Booth found himself anxious. Yelling at the FBI forensics team for sloppy evidence handling on the cold case hadn't taken the edge off so he took off for an early lunch.

Buying the local chronicle out of the paper box in front of Wong Foo's, Booth entered and sat at the bar.

"Hey, you see your boy yet?" the owner greeted his regular as he sat at the bar.

"Not yet. But Rebecca has promised I can see him with his nanny at the park next week. Give him his birthday present then," he said, a sad smile on his face. It wasn't nearly enough but the agent was taking what he could get.

Sid nodded in sympathy and disappeared to the kitchen.

Nervously rubbing his new gambling sobriety chip, Booth opened the paper to the apartment listings. Reading down the page, he mumbled as he perused the ads, "too expensive… too expensive… bad neighborhood… too expensive… too far…" and quickly eliminated most of the listings as he went.

Booth's frustration was not new to the week. It had built over the last three weeks as his apartment search became more desperate. Without any vacation time left after his week with Parker, every evening had been filled with fruitless apartment hunting. So far, only a handful had fit his meager criteria to be within his budget, be in a neighborhood safe for a cop, and be within an hour's commute of work and Parker – not that being close to the latter would have mattered lately, so far Rebecca had been resolute in her threat to keep the boy from his father.

Of the few that had met his criteria, none would accept him as a tenant without a letter of recommendation from his previous landlord, something Mrs. Cho refused to provide.

Sid set down a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in front of an exhausted federal agent. Not the usual fare in the Asian restaurant, the owner reasoned, "You look like you need some good comfort food."

"You never fail me, Sid. I don't know how you do it." He picked up his fork and began his meal while poring over the apartment ads in front of him, his last hope. He had four days to find a place and move in or he would be homeless.

Homeless.

That was a terrifying thought. _Great, give Rebecca one more reason to keep Parker from me._ He didn't even have his own vehicle to live out of and somehow he didn't think the FBI would be thrilled if he lived out of their SUV.

 _Aha!_ He circled the very last apartment listed, triumphant at his find, and punched the listing's listed number into his cell and heard it ring.

Again and again, it rang, Booth's shoulders slumping a little more each time. He had just accepted the inevitable answering machine when a woman finally answered on the thirteenth ring. He jolted upright again with a little hope since he had reached an actual person.

He gabbed eagerly into the phone, "Hi, yeah. Sorry to bother you." He was as bad as a telemarketer now, interrupting her dinner. "I'm calling about the apartment you listed in… seriously?" The crestfallen look on his face caught Sid's attention across the bar. "No, an apartment opening in six weeks won't help me. Thanks." He slapped his phone shut and tossed it next to his plate as Sid approached.

"Bad news?" The owner assumed the stereotypical barman stance, wiping glasses clean while facing the customer.

"Yeah." Hope was gone from his demeanor, his eyes glued to his plate. "My last option for my apartment was leased out this morning and I'm getting evicted in four days." He couldn't believe his crappy timing. Leaning forward on one elbow, the defeated agent took another bite and sent up a silent prayer to Saint Jude the patron saint of hopeless causes.

"I have a place for you." Sid stated matter-of-factly.

Disbelieving eyes raised to question the other man as he froze mid-chew. Had he prayed out loud accidentally?

Sid continued, "My mom just moved to a home. Her house is empty now. You can rent it, get my mom some money to help pay for the nursing care and I don't have to sell it right away."

Booth leaned back on his stool, hands on the bar, still skeptical, "Seriously, a house? I can't afford that!"

"How do you know? We haven't talked price yet. I bet I can make it work for you."

"Wow Sid. I don't know what to say." _Saint Jude, you are GOOD!_

"It's about 15 miles from here. I have a few stipulations though." Sid leaned both forearms on the bar as he ticked off his fingers as he listed, "One, Pay on time. Two, no pets. Three, no parties. And four take care of the house and yard. Take care of it right until I'm ready to sell it, and I'll take care of you."

Nothing outrageous or unreasonable asked, it sounded too good to be true. "Why are you doing this for me?"

"I have a knack for knowing who to trust."

Too good or not, he had a place to live! "You just saved my ass. Drinks tonight, on me." He stuck his hand to shake his new best friend's hand over the bar top.

Still holding Booth's hand, Sid reminded his new tenant, "I own a bar."

"Oh, right." Smirking at his own folly, Booth could finally breathe easily again. Everything else seemed manageable again. The case would get solved, he'd get the new agent reassigned, the suspect would be caught, Rebecca would eventually cave and let Parker stay with him again and he would find some way to get Temperance Brennan to call him back. The saints were listening, miracles could happen.

* * *

"How in the world did you write a book in thirty days?" Angela eyed her friend wearily as she laid her side satchel over the arm of the couch.

"Twenty-two days, actually. It just flowed out of me once I had characters and a crime in mind." Brennan pulled two wine glasses from a side cupboard and headed for the kitchen. "White or red?"

Her friend followed to lean in the doorway. "Red, please. So if you're done with it, why exactly did you want me to come over to read your book? I'm not exactly the smartest person you know." While she was happy to hang out, it was a Friday night and she would much rather be out at a club or bar than _reading,_ even if there was free wine involved.

"Not the whole book, just the chapters with the main characters' relationship. I want an outside perspective on the way they work together." Brennan rummaged through her drawers searching for the corkscrew. Successfully finding it, she uncorked the bottle and poured out two generous glasses.

"Since when do you ask for other opinions? Though I'm flattered you asked me." Brennan handed Angela a glass and together they walked back to the living room, Brennan's workspace and Angela's voluntary detention for the night.

Brennan sighed as she sat at the dining table in front of her computer. Looking at the table, she spoke candidly, "I find I am not good at relationships. While I've had short term flings over the years and I'm dating Peter now, it's mostly about sex and I thought perhaps you would be better at telling me whether this fictional relationship is realistic or not."

Angela smiled wide at the complement. They were rare coming from the scientist, but she never said something she didn't mean.

"Also," Brennan tipped her head thoughtfully, "it has been pointed out to me that my intelligence makes others feel stupid and while I can't help being smarter than everyone else, I want this book to be understandable to the general public. You're my only friend who is intellectually equal to the general public so I'd like your opinion on its understandability." Remembering her blow-out fight with Agent Booth at the Hoover building after the Gemma case, she buried her head in her laptop.

"Gee, thanks." Angela's grin dropped to a smirk as she rolled her eyes, knowing full well her sarcasm would be lost on Brennan. After just a few short months, she knew her friend well enough to know she didn't mean to be insulting, she just called the facts as she saw them. "So where do I start reading?"

"I'd like to focus on the chapters with scenes where the characters meet first. Then, as time permits, I want your opinion on the scenes with the characters' personal relationship."

"The sex scenes?" Angela waggled her eyebrows.

"They won't have sex in the book."

"Hm, that will speed up the reading at least."

"Even skipping the strictly criminal and science parts, I don't know if we'll have time to make it through everything in one night. I flagged the specific scenes I want to focus on. I believe you'll start with chapter three."

Angela began reading but didn't make it more than a few sips. "Sweetie, what in the world is a patella? Page 27."

"It's your kneecap. I can't do anything about basic anatomy terms."

"Do you think they would consider adding a labeled skeleton picture as a reference?" The artist snickered at her own joke.

"I highly doubt it. This is a novel for adults, not… oh. You were joking." Brennan caught Angela's eye and continued reading herself.

The pattern continued for some time; Angela asking questions, noting which page and Brennan answering the questions while editing where necessary simultaneously on her computer.

"Whoa, Brennan." Angela shifted her body sideways on the couch so she could balance the manuscript on the back of the couch, thus facing the author.

"What's that?" Brennan's head inclined towards her friend though her eyes never left her screen. However, Angela's eyes never left the manuscript so she didn't realize her friend was only half paying attention.

"Page 29.

'Agent Andy Lister entered my office. He sat across from my desk, waiting for me to break my concentration. Little did he know, I had already noticed the breadth of his shoulders and strong jaw line. I looked up to the warm brown eyes and asked him…'"

Brennan looked up from her computer and raised her eyebrows impatiently, "I know what it says Ange; I wrote it. Why the 'whoa' reaction though?"

"The description of this guy! Are his looks based on your old professor flame?"

"Michael?" She thought for a moment, conjuring up an image in her mind of the real man. "No. He does have similar hair and brown eyes, but Michael's physique is not nearly as defined or virile as Andy's."

"One more question." She caught Brennan's eyes, pausing a moment before hesitantly asking, "Are you sure you want them talking about sex during their first conversation?"

"Why not? I've always found it best to be up front with a man about desires and expectations." Her head went down to her screen assuming Angela was making an observation, rather than bringing up a point of discussion."

Clearly, Brennan was not going to change it so Angela let it drop doubtingly with a murmured, "It's your story."

A few minutes passed while she finished reading Lister's introduction to the story and a very sexy lean in between the two characters. "Wow. That was hot! I think I'm going to need some chocolate to go with this wine." Then after a moment's reflection, Angela questioned, "What does Peter think about this?

"Think about what?" Brennan's head popped up once again, face completely innocent.

"About Agent Andy, about the book?"

Brennan's debated momentarily how to respond deciding to be honest. "He hasn't read it." She stood to refill her wine glasses in the kitchen.

"Really? Why not?" Angela had a tendency to overshare with the men she dated and could hardly understand keeping something as important as a book from one's sex-mate.

"Peter respects that I want to keep my work and my personal life separate." Brennan hollered from the kitchen as she poured another glass.

"So you _have_ seen each other in the last month. On top of writing and lectures and the Jeffersonian?"

Brennan returned to the living room and paused in the doorway staring into space. "I haven't had any speaking engagements in the last month so I've had time to see each other. Always after intense writing sessions. I find that the creativity coming out in long writing stints tends to increase my libido."

"He can't complain about that." The artist turned to sit forward on the couch again.

"No." Her attention came back to reality at Angela's movement and she sat at the table once more. "If you're done with that chapter, I think chapter seven is the next one not revolving around the murder investigation." Brennan's fingers typed furiously

Angela stretched her legs and yawned wide, noticing her friend's activity. "I haven't had any notes for you. What exactly are you working on?"

"As I was re-reading my description of the victim's leg remodeling, I had only noted the plateau fracture to the tibia, and while not incorrect on its own, most people who have this type of break would also break their fibula as well. I have decided that inserting this detail will better demonstrate the severity of the previous injury thus giving the reader a better idea of the pain tolerance of the victim. Two broken bones is more interesting than one."

"How did I miss a broken leg?"

"Chapter fourteen. You aren't there yet."

She rolled her eyes and continued on her page, "Yeah, yeah, I'm an average reader who… whoa baby!" Angela interjected upon herself, spinning sideways on the couch to face Brennan yet still keeping her eyes on the paper before her. "I like this sexual tension you have going on with these two. He's always so in her personal space. Yowza!"

The author ignored the outburst and continued on her edits until Angela whined, "Seriously? You don't have them kiss here? They're practically ready to rip each other's clothes off and go at it!" She looked back to her friend, disappointed.

"They don't kiss until near the end," Brennan stated nonchalantly.

"Why not?" Angela whined. "I'm barely into this and I can tell they are meant for each other."

"Fictional characters can hardly have real relationships, Angela."

"Still, I want to see how these two…" she flipped to the last few pages of the manuscript, scanning until she spied Lister and Kathy's names together. "Wow. That is some kiss, based on that description. If I ever get kissed like that, I am going to marry that man. And I don't even believe in monogamy! No wonder you won't let Peter read this! It's your fantasy in print!"

Ignoring the fantasy remark, Brennan commented defensively, "It has nothing to do with the characters or kissing. I just like to keep my work and personal lives separate from each other. People at work don't need to know me outside of work and people in my personal life usually don't even _want_ to know what I do at work."

"How does our friendship work then? It's okay to let your worlds overlap, you know. Let people in." Angela was prodding more than Brennan liked.

"I… Do you need more wine? I need more wine." With that, she stood to grab a second bottle from the kitchen, purposefully ignoring her friend's assertion and the question she had no answer to.


	5. November 2004

**A/N:** Thank you, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read these. I love feedback. And to 554Laura, I've decided you are quite a lovely person and everyone should know it.

* * *

 **November 2004**

Booth stepped confidently through the double doors into the Jeffersonian Museum's welcome center currently masquerading as a ballroom for a donor/scientist meet and greet cocktail party.

Ever the bureaucrat, Dr. Goodman had invited Booth to regale the attendees with the tale of how the Jeffersonian had teamed with the FBI in a murder investigation in an attempt to impress the donors and maybe loosen their purse-strings a little more.

The agent was of a mind to skip the event. Schmoozing hoity-toits hit near the top of his list of undesirable evening activities, but Bones was going to be there. He agreed to put in an appearance though, privately, a chance to see and talk to her was his one and only reason for accepting. She would be there and wouldn't be able to avoid him, and in a room full of her benefactors, she wouldn't make too much of a scene either.

Dressed in his standard FBI-issue black suit made complete with his flashiest classy red striped tie, Booth scanned the room, searching among the upper crust for an auburn head he'd been trying to reach for three months.

"Agent Booth," the deep baritone voice called him out of his concentration, "I'm glad you could make it."

"Dr. Goodman." Booth greeted the museum director. The two men shook hands though the agent only met the PhD's eyes briefly before he continued scanning the crowd behind the other man's head. "Do you know where I'll find Bo-, Dr. Brennan tonight?"

"I don't believe she's here yet. She had a lecture engagement at her University this afternoon and said she would likely be late."

Booth nodded in response while the director surveyed his party. "Not as many of our bigger donors were able to attend this year. Perhaps next year I shall turn the event into a formal gala or banquet."

The agent had no response, standing with his hands in his pockets while the natural pause in conversation turned to awkward silence between the two men.

Dr. Goodman broke the discomfort, "I believe you've met Angela Montenegro before." The archaeologist waved the brunette woman over from a conversation she had just finished with a small group of octogenarians. "She can introduce you to some of our younger patrons who will be most interested in our recent partnership with you. If you'll excuse me, I see someone I need to greet." He was walking away before the agent could respond.

Angela arrived while watching Dr. Goodman's retreating form. "I hope he meant for me to come talk to you and not follow him around. Good to see you again Agent Booth. Nice tie," and she flashed him her brightest smile. It was no punishment to stand next to the gorgeous man and a reprieve to escape the dull conversations the room held.

He smirked in return, grateful Goodman had reminded him of the pretty woman's name. "Nice to see you, Angela. I came to apologize to Temperance but I hear she won't be here until later. Care to join me at the bar?"

"You know I'd love to, but I'm on the clock right now, gettin' paid to socialize with these people. I'm probably too new to risk getting shitfaced in front of my boss," she laughed easily. Constantly searching the room for the bigwigs she had been counselled to chat up, she spotted some VIPs. "I have to go say hello to the Grants but I'll try to stop by again in a bit."

Booth nodded in understanding. "Open bar?"

"Nothing but the best," Angela replied with a sing-song voice as she began to walk away. Before she got too far, she turned, squinting her eyes at the agent and warned him, "Bren probably won't talk to you, even when she does get here." Then spinning back on her heel, she strode away before the agent could ask why.

Deciding to ignore her caution for the time being, he shuffled through the throngs to reach the bar. He ordered a whiskey on the rocks – if he was going to be there, he was taking advantage of the free liquor – then turned to survey the room. A string quartet played softly to one side of the ballroom while the perimeter had high top tables scattered about. Completing the scene were four display cases from various Jeffersonian exhibits, carted in for the event.

The crowd at the bar encouraged his movement to one of the high tables where he stationed himself with a clear view of the entrance, waiting for one forensic anthropologist.

His ice slowly watered down the drink, but he continued staring, practically willing her to come waltzing through the doors.

"And what got you interested in the work of the Jeffersonian, handsome?" A twang drawled at his side as a tanned, weathered hand rested on his forearm, disturbing him out of his intent focus.

"Beg pardon?" Booth pulled his arm away gently and turned his head to politely address a middle aged woman wearing clothing designed for someone twenty years younger.

She purred at his attention. "Not too many younger fellas like yourself here, not the thing for most of your generation, I suppose. I got interested because of my _late_ husband's interest but now I find all of it just mesmerizing. Wanda Lyman." She stuck a bejeweled hand out.

"Special Agent Seeley Booth with the FBI." Shaking hands, Wanda's painted eyes went wide in awe as he continued, "The Jeffersonian Forensic Division assisted in a homicide investigation a few months back."

"How fascinating, the FBI. It must be dangerous work!" the dame gushed, touching his shoulder. "Tell me, what's the most dangerous situation you've found yourself in?"

The agent remained outwardly stoic, though internally he bristled. This woman was obviously looking for story time, a tale to entertain and impress her friends with later. Civilly, he managed a practiced response, "Classified information Mrs. Lyman. If you'll excuse me, I think I see who I was waiting for." Booth walked with purpose to a darker corner, watched the woman begin monopolizing someone else's time, and inspected the room once more for Bones.

Not wanting to be caught by another lonely woman in conversation, Booth sauntered to the display case closest to him to inspect some old coins found on a recent archaeological dig while still keeping an eye on the entrance.

Angela found him a short while later bent over the glass cover, a crease of confusion between his brows.

Before she could announce her presence, he spoke. "I don't get why people care so much about old scraps of metal."

Angela stood erect, in surprise that he had noticed her arrival, but relaxed once more as she smirked. "Something about how it proved something that some group of people somewhere did something else. I don't know, I just helped with the rendering of what those 'scraps of metal' would have looked like before being buried for thousands of years." The artist pointed proudly to the printed image in the case.

"You did that?" Seeley Booth was impressed. "You must have gotten a fancy computer then."

Angela smiled broadly. "Had to. Caroline Julian demanded Dr. Goodman get me only the best to prepare for the Hasty case." She sobered as she remembered her real purpose in approaching Booth. "Anyway, I didn't get to finish before. You do know Brennan is still pretty mad at you, right? Word is, you manhandled her – and she does _not_ like to be pushed." Looking him in the eye, she implored, "Can't you just leave well enough alone for tonight? She hates these things as it is."

"If she would take my calls, I wouldn't have to be here." He paused as Angela's eyebrows raised suspecting something. Rationalizing, he went on, "Strictly business. Keep things friendly between the FBI and the Jeffersonian, there's interest in collaborating again in the future."

"Suit yourself, G-man," she warned, doubt showing on her face. "Look, I have to keep mingling. Dr. Goodman is looking over here, but maybe I'll see you later. I can promise you though, Bren is going to avoid you tonight." With only an accusatory glance behind her, she sashayed away.

Booth bent back over the case, focusing this time on the image Angela pointed out, showing the coins in all their detailed, colorful splendor. "That's actually pretty amazing," Booth muttered to himself. Caroline was going to be very pleased with the artist's computer imaging skills.

"What are you doing here?" Zach Addy suddenly stood across the display case from the agent, his brown suit hanging off his frame. The juxtaposition of their appearances served only to make the one look more masculine and the other more juvenile.

"Dr. Goodman invited me to do your job sucking up to these people for more donations," Booth scorned the young man. "Besides, I need to talk to Bones." His eyes pretended to be interested in the scraps of metal.

"She doesn't want to see you. She thinks you are, and I quote, a jackass. You should leave."

"I don't care what she thinks of me." There was a whopper of a lie. "I'm not leaving. I need to talk to her about the Hasty trial."

Mr. Addy never let his eyes leave Booth despite the intimidation he felt. "Whatever additional evidence you need, you can get from me."

The agent stood, squaring his shoulders. "This isn't about the evidence, this is about the trial," Booth spoke to the young man with a forced calm, as if he were a small child. "Are _you_ the lead forensic witness? No? I didn't think so. That would be Dr. Brennan so I'm going to talk to _her._ "

Her assistant's demeanor was visibly uncomfortable but he stood his ground. "Then you should have Ms. Julian contact her directly."

"No thanks, I'll talk to her tonight."

"No you won't. She isn't coming."

"Dr. Goodman just said she'd be late."

"She was detained by a Q and A session after her lecture and will not be able to make it tonight," Zach stated in a practiced rhetoric. "Dr. Goodman doesn't know yet," he lied, hoping against hope that the agent couldn't tell.

Booth glowered at Zach, not trusting his words. After a brief pause, he conceded, "Fine. If that's how she's going to be," he drained his watery whiskey and set the glass on top of the display case. Pointing his finger in the grad student's face, he instructed, "Tell her to call me back or I'll be stopping by the lab with the case file."

He stalked towards the entrance and threw a backwards glance into the room once more, just in time to see the one and only Dr. Temperance Brennan slide into the room through a side door with Zach. He sighed in defeat and began playing with the poker chip in his pocket. She didn't like being pushed? Fine, he wouldn't push tonight. Hopefully his threat of a visit would get her to call at least.

Exiting the double doors, Booth bumped into a server, then left into the cool evening air, trying to think what about the trial he would talk to her about.

* * *

Dr. Brennan and Zach Addy entered the Jeffersonian through the employee parking garage and walked briskly towards her office. She had given a lecture on tool identification based on kerf marks and her student had come along to aid in her demonstration.

The donor's cocktail party ranked low on her list of priorities so she had been satisfied to stay longer to answer some additional questions for some curious undergrads.

"Mr. Addy, please go tell Dr. Goodman we have arrived. I need to change and I will be up momentarily."

"Right away, Dr. Brennan," and the eager-to-please assistant separated from her to take the ornate wooden staircase up and down the hall to the welcome center next door.

She continued to her office where her party dress was waiting. After changing in the restroom, she returned to substitute her utilitarian boots for some sensible pumps and found Angela, who had come down the moment she spied Zach, perched on the arm of her sofa.

"Hey sweetie, love the dress! How was your lecture?" The artist asked good-naturedly.

"It was fine. A couple undergraduate students had mildly thoughtful questions, hence my tardiness. Sorry I wasn't here to start your first fundraiser event."

Angela was full of smiles this evening. "No need to apologize, I like parties, though this is by far the most boring one I've ever been to. By the way, there's a hot FBI agent who has been waiting for you all night upstairs." She waggled her eyebrows at her friend, teasing. "I told him you're mad at him but he still wants to talk to you."

Brennan's jaw tightened instantly. "No Angela, it is bad enough making small talk with the benefactors tonight. I refuse to deal with Booth, too." She pushed past her friend to switch out her earrings.

"He says he wants to apologize."

She scoffed, "I don't think a sincere apology is in his character. I need you to convince him to leave."

They followed Zach's earlier path up the stairs while Angela balked. "Me? Why me? You're the one who has an issue with the guy."

"Why did Dr. Goodman have to invite him?" Brennan muttered to herself. "Maybe I can ask him to make Booth leave."

Her friend chuckled, "You know he won't do that. If he invited Booth, he's not going to kick him out for no other reason than you want him to."

They reached the side doors to the party room but Brennan stalled going in. "Fine, then I'll just scream 'pervert' if he tries talking to me so that Dr. Goodman _has_ to make Booth leave, if he doesn't of his own accord."

Angela held the door shut to prevent Brennan's access. "Whoa, whoa, whoa there Bren. Do you want to lose your job, too? And if you're gone, I'm gone and I like this whole paycheck thing. Just… just give me a minute to come up with a better idea. One that won't get either of us fired."

Brennan pouted, "He wouldn't fire me, I'm too valuable," earning her a pointed look from her friend.

"Zach!" Angela snapped her fingers, "Be right back!" and was in the door alone and out again dragging Zach by the arm before Brennan could begin to follow her seemingly random thought process.

"I can't leave, I'm waiting to see Naomi from paleontology!" the young man whined as Angela dropped his arm.

"This will take two minutes then you can go back to being a wallflower. Bren here," Angela motioned towards their colleague, "wants Booth to leave and you, my friend, are the one who is going to do it."

Both stared at the artist incredulously before Zach responded, "How am _I_ supposed to get a specially-trained, likely-armed FBI agent to leave?"

Angela rolled her eyes at the interruption and addressed both of them. "Booth told me he came because he wants to apologize but I'm willing to bet that man to man, there is no way he'll cop to it. I'm guessing he'll make up some other excuse about needing to talk about the Hasty trial or wanting help with a new case or something. Zach here can deter any excuse by intercepting any questions about the trial or volunteering to assist with any new case."

"I don't want to assist him with a case," Zach interrupted again.

"It's a ploy, Zach. He doesn't really want help with a new case." Angela didn't understand how for being so bright, he could be so clueless.

"But what if he still refuses to leave?" Brennan doubted this plan.

"Then just say she got caught up in a Q&A session after her lecture and won't make it tonight." The excuse rolled off her lips with zero thought.

Zach's eyes went wide at the suggestion of lying to the federal agent. "But that isn't the truth."

"I agree with Zach, Angela. He can't lie to him, even if he is a jackass."

Angela looked at the ceiling, exasperated. "It _was_ the truth. He doesn't have to know it ended. Besides, a lie would be better than you loudly making fake sex related claims during the fundraiser."

Both of the anthropologists looked at her as if she had two heads. Angela's lipped pressed into a thin line. "Fine, I will try hinting to him that he should leave. But if me being nice doesn't work, Zach is in. Got it?"

Two heads nodded in unison as the brunette reentered the room once more. Neither was surprised when she joined them a few minutes later, bacon-wrapped scallop in hand, shooing Zach in to work his awkward magic. She left Brennan alone to keep watch over the assistant's progress.

Brennan waited impatiently with her thoughts while serving staff bustled around with their trays. _At least there's food_ and she helped herself to appetizers as they passed her in the hall.

"Dr. Brennan," Zach stuck his head into the hall once more, "The lie appears to have worked. Agent Booth is leaving."

The scientist squared her shoulders while finishing her bite, pleased to have won the day. Finally ready to explain and expound upon what she and her department did; ready to debate the importance of giving the unknown back their identities.

She slid into the room behind her assistant as he added, "He said to tell you to call him back or he'll stop by the lab."

She froze angrily, lips tightening in fury that he had found a way to get what he wanted, without even seeing her.

Angela rejoined them then with a message from Dr. Goodman for Dr. Brennan to join him. The ladies left Zach to find Naomi and made their way across the room to a high top table where her boss and three others chatted.

"Here she is, _this_ is Dr. Temperance Brennan, the best forensic anthropologist there is," Dr. Goodman introduced her to the group, "Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Ruschi and Ms. Wanda Lyman".

She shook hands with the guests as a server stopped by with a glass of red wine for her. Confused by the drink she had never ordered, Dr. Brennan quietly told the server as much.

"I'm so sorry, this was meant for Dr. Temperance Brennan. I thought I heard that man introduce you by that name, my apologies." He moved to remove the glass from the table, but her hand over the top of the glass stopped him.

"I am, but I didn't order anything." The Ruschi couple had resumed their discussion with Dr. Goodman but Ms. Lyman watched the exchange intently.

The server, trying his best to be discreet responded, "A gentleman with a bright red tie requested it for you on his way out."

Angela's eyes went wide as she made the connection. She leaned over to share her inside knowledge with her friend, "Booth was wearing a red tie tonight."

The shock made Brennan seethe for the briefest moment before she forced a small smile to her lips and took a sip, effectively dismissing the server.

" _Special Agent_ Seeley Booth?" the third woman had been eavesdropping. Without waiting for confirmation, she prattled on while Angela snuck away, "I met that nice man earlier tonight, though he was mighty distracted looking for someone. That someone must have been you." She winked at the scientist. "It's too bad he couldn't stick around, such a handsome man. That was so sweet of him to order for you. How long have you known each other?"

Brennan blinked in surprise at the woman's insinuation. "We, I… we worked together on a homicide investigation last August. Excuse me." She grabbed her wine glass and rudely abandoned Ms. Lyman searching out Angela at the bar.

"Wow, I'm impressed you got away from that one. I thought she was going to drone on… sorry I kind of abandoned you back there." Angela looked sheepish even if she wasn't really that sorry.

"You can make it up to me by telling Dr. Goodman I went home with a headache if he asks. I have to get out of here." She disappeared into the crowd before Angela could object.

Retracing her steps back to her office, Brennan worked herself into a rage, livid at the man who had once physically grabbed her arm and insulted her. And now tonight, had embarrassed her by ordering her a drink making people think _things_ and forcing her to call him.

She sat at her computer, searching for his phone number. Once found, she pounded the numbers into her cell phone and listened to the ring. He was quick to answer.

"Booth."

"I have three doctorates, I can order my own drink thank you very much," she snapped into the phone.

On the other end, Booth sat up a little straighter in the back seat of the cab and smiled, "You're very welcome," purposely ignoring her sarcasm. He was shocked she'd called so soon.

"What do you want Booth?"

His mind raced. _Another shot. To work with you again. To take you to coffee. To apologize. To kiss you again._ "I owe you an apology for pulling your arm while we were speaking with Mrs. Arrington a few months ago." Gritting his teeth, he had no idea why he was apologizing. He hadn't really been too rough on her, but he really, really wanted to see her again so if apologizing for nothing was what it took…

"Okay," she said simply. "Will you leave me alone now?"

 _Wait, Okay?! This is the part where she's supposed to apologize for being condescending! Whatever, just keep her talking._ "I also wanted to get together to go over testimony for the Myles Hasty trial." He was grasping at straws to see her again. "Caroline says the trial is…"

"Next month." Brennan interjected tersely mid-sentence. "I know. I converse directly with Ms. Julian you know. And no thank you, I'm going over testimony with her. Anything else?"

"I, uh, I" Booth stammered, wracking his brain for any excuse to see her or even keep her on the phone.

"I thought not. Now you can stop calling every week. Good-bye Booth." Brennan closed her phone and leaned back into her chair and breathed a sigh of relief that she was done with that arrogant man.

Across town, a cab pulled up to the curb, and a strangely smug Seeley Booth paid the driver. Walking up to his door, he couldn't help but gloat internally, _at least she called back._


	6. December 2004

**Tis the season to be canning.** I have spent almost as much time juicing and canning tomatoes this week as I have writing. That project is done for the year at least so I can get back to this little arc. Disclaimer: my husband didn't like this chapter as much as some previous ones but he couldn't tell me or pinpoint why. Maybe some of you have ideas. I'm not afraid to hear them.

* * *

 **December 2014**

Arriving back at the J. Edgar Hoover building after a successful arrest, Booth grabbed a stale cup of coffee from the fourth floor break room and made his way back to his desk. Taking a satisfied seat at his desk, he rolled up his sleeves not unwilling to complete the necessary paperwork.

Logging onto his computer, his e-mail flashed sixteen new e-mails. Scanning the list, most of the messages could be ignored for the time being. One red flag drew his immediate attention and put his paperwork on hold. Reading quickly, he rose and strode out of the bullpen carrying his coffee toward his favorite prosecutor's office.

The agent stuck his head in the door enquiring, "You wanted to see me, Caroline?"

The attorney held out a finger making him pause. She had the phone to her ear so she pointed to a chair indicating she wanted him to sit while she finished her conversation, "Yes, sir. I understand."

He sat and lifted his chin curiously. Caroline was only this polite to judges and their clerks. Glad he had come when he did, he was eager to be the first to hear whatever news she was receiving.

"Thank you for calling." Caroline hung up soon after equally as eager to share. "That was Judge Cohen's office. Good news cher, Myles Hasty has decided to take a last minute plea deal." She leaned back in her chair, a smug smile teasing her lips. "Took his team long enough to figure out the evidence was indisputable."

"Oh." Booth's eyes flicked to the floor momentarily, then settled for staring at the corner of Caroline's desk, cradling his mug between both hands.

"Oh? That's all you've got to say? This is _good_ news. Put a smile on that fine face of yours."

Here, Booth made eye contact, but still did not smile as Caroline continued leaning forward, "Or do you get some sick pleasure watching me work harder than I have to? Not that his was going to be a difficult case."

"No… it's good news." He forced a tight-lipped smile to pacify Caroline and took a sip of coffee while she eyed him analytically.

"You e-mailed, wanted to see me?" he reminded her. Anything to get her to stop looking at him so suspiciously.

"Oh no. Don't you go trying to distract me. Now I'm curious why exactly you're so disappointed there won't be a trial. I know sitting on the witness stand is _not_ your favorite part of the job." She squinted at him as he squirmed under her gaze. Her morning spent on witness interviews, she was quick to guess. "I hope this doesn't have anything to do with hoping to see a certain scientist at the trial. Like maybe that bones woman you were so low about last summer?"

Booth's defensive reflexes shot up, "We worked together _once_!"

"Mmhmm." She read through him instantly. "That woman is definitely an asset for catching arrogant criminals, but if you have other ideas for her, besides professionally, I'm going to warn you, she is bad news." Caroline crossed her arms defiantly.

"I don't know what you're talking about." He licked his lips subconsciously and took another drink to mask his discomfort.

"Don't try to pull that with me Seeley Booth. You know exactly what I mean. That lady doctor has got _way_ too much emotional baggage."

"Baggage?" His eyebrows raised before fixing his features to be neutral. "Everyone has some."

She quirked an eyebrow, prompting Booth to probe a little too eagerly, "What do you know?"

She gave him a pointed look, replying, "Only that she is cold as a fish and too rational for her own good."

"That's a little harsh." He tried to forget he had called her as much not too long ago himself.

"Not my words." She glared at him knowingly as he winced. "You'd understand more if you had bothered to check into her background."

Properly humbled for the moment, Booth asked more gently, "What about it?"

Sighing at the sad story, Caroline stood as she recounted, "Her parents abandoned her when she was fifteen and haven't been heard from since. Can you imagine being in the midst of adolescence and suddenly your parents disappear?"

"Booth sunk back in his chair rubbing his jaw, absorbing this new information. Incredulous, he managed to sputter, "Both her parents? At the same time?" He chastised himself internally at the dumb question. He thought he'd had a bad childhood but at least he'd always had Pops and Jared.

Caroline pulled a file out of her desk drawer and waved it teasingly in the air.

Booth set his mug down and reached out. "Why do you have this? You researching Bones or something?"

"Until ten minutes ago, I was about to prosecute a case without knowing anything about my lead forensic witness. Of course I looked her up, I'm no dummy." She slapped the folder into his outstretched hand. "I'm just surprised you didn't."

Booth ignored the attorney and flipped the missing person file open. Glancing through the few photographs, his eyes stopped longer than necessary on a picture of a young gap-toothed Temperance Brennan, jovial and care-free. He began skimming the summaries as quickly as he could. "Wait, she has a brother?"

"Russ, though he was an adult already when they vanished. I looked him up, too. He's got his own petty rap sheet." Caroline walked around and sat on the chair next to the agent while he continued his perusal. "Like I said, she's got considerable baggage. I'd think twice before searching her out."

"How did you get this?" Another dumb question. Where was his head this afternoon?

"That's her copy. She had it sent over after our meeting this morning."

The agent froze. He looked like he was reading, but his eyes didn't see the words. Internally, he was cursing his missed opportunity to run into her. He would have been able to ask her face-to-face to look over evidence on his next case. Any excuse to work with her again. If only…

"I've requested an official copy internally but the case is old enough, it isn't available electronically," Caroline continued on, thankfully unaware of his distracted thoughts.

Off topic, he announced, "She could be beneficial to my career, Caroline, whatever her background."

"No doubt." She looked at him with pity.

He finally looked up unaware of her musings and asked, "Can I take this with me?" He wanted to find her parents for her. She'd have to forgive him then.

Sorry cher, not your case, plus I have to give it back to Dr. Brennan as soon as my copy comes." She held her hand out to take the file back. "As far as I'm concerned, you never even saw this. You have no idea who her parents are. I just thought you'd like to know."

Booth nodded in understanding as he rose. Caroline was right, he didn't have the jurisdiction. "Thanks. I'm assuming _that_ is what you wanted me for."

"No, I called you for our same old pretrial interview. Moot point after that phone call though." She turned back to the paperwork spread across her desk.

Picking up his near empty mug, a worried smile touched Booth's lips as he strolled thoughtfully back to the breakroom for a refill.

 _No wonder she's so independent and unconnected. If that's what you're used to. Mom and dad disappear_ … He froze at his sudden realization: yes, she had been angry with him for putting his hands on her to pull her from the room while talking to Gemma's mother, but she had also been angry with him in the parking garage right before he had arrested Myles Hasty. It wasn't until he'd made the sneer comment about fathers that her eyes had turned from fire to ice in an instant and left him standing alone.

He knew he needed her, be it professionally, as friends or something more, his gut told him so. Spying her for a few scant seconds at the Jeffersonian fundraiser had confirmed it for him. But if she was used to being a loner, this was going to be even harder than he originally thought.

* * *

When Caroline had invited her to meet at her office to review testimony, Brennan was ready. She was partly eager to be called upon for her expertise in a courtroom, but more so just in case Booth called about the trial again: she wouldn't have to lie about working directly with the prosecutor. Strangely, after so many months of polite but on-going phone messages, she was relieved that he had gone radio silent after their brief, but terse conversation the night of the Jeffersonian fundraiser.

Light flurries fell as she stepped on the sidewalk outside the FBI headquarters. Statistically speaking, the chances of running into Booth were extremely low. The Hoover building had hundreds of people working within its walls. Still, her unease at the idea of seeing him kept her on high alert to the people all around her.

Stopping in the lobby briefly for a visitor badge and directions to Ms. Julian's office, Brennan continued to the fourth floor, turning left out of the elevator bank and straight down a hall past a pack of desks sitting in the open. She noted the name on the glass door at the far end of the hall and let herself in, startling the woman sitting at the desk.

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" a ruffled Caroline chastised the scientist. Brennan's abrupt entrance had caught her in in the middle of reviewing a confidential file. Quickly throwing it in her desk drawer, she demanded, "How would you like it if I just waltzed into your office?"

Without malice or offense Brennan admitted, "My door is _kept_ open. I find it more efficient when people need to speak to me than knocking. Besides, even if it were closed, my door, like yours, is made of glass so it is possible to see who is coming before the door is opened." She set her satchel down on the floor, peeled her wool coat off and laid it with her other winter things on the second seat near the desk.

"Well I prefer it when my visitors knock!" The attorney was riled up having taken Brennan's words as provocation.

"Even when you're expecting them?" Dr. Brennan was genuinely confused as she took a seat. "I thought the front desk called you to tell you I was on my way up."

Seeing she had misinterpreted her visitor's meaning, Caroline pursed her lips and decided to let it slide. "Let's get straight down to business, shall we? Have you ever testified in court before?"

"Yes, as an expert witness. However, never as the lead forensic."

"Good. So you at least understand the basics of how you are called to the stand, the swearing in process, etcetera?"

"Yes. I assumed you wanted to go over the evidence again; what you want me to say on the stand." Brennan leaned over to take files out of her satchel but was stopped by the attorney's next words.

"I'm not concerned about the science-y stuff. You and your team at the Jeffersonian have that nicely tied up with a pretty little bow for me. Besides, it would be highly unethical of me to tell you what to say on the stand. As long as you say what's in the files you gave me."

"The evidence is all fact. I would be lying under oath to dispute the facts.

Caroline stared. Normally, her science experts refused to answer in black and white terms, yet here sat one who didn't accept any gray.

Brennan's shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under her gaze and unsure of the purpose of her presence now that she understood science was not in question. "So why did you ask me to come?"

"I need to know more about you." Caroline reclined in her seat to observe the scientist.

"You could read my FBI consultant file for that."

"Now _that_ is just too logical," she mocked scornfully.

"It's my job to be rational." The sarcasm of Caroline's statement was lost on Brennan.

The attorney folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward. "Give me a little credit, doctor. I did _my_ homework before calling you all the way here. It told me you are a forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian. It lists your degrees and awards and tells me what languages you speak. It told me every foreign nation you have worked in and what the purpose of each of those jobs was. But it does not tell me who _you_ are. Your background. Your personal side."

"I don't know what my personal life has to do with anything."

"It matters," Caroline quarreled, "because defense attorneys usually like to play dirty and discount the testimony of a witness using any means necessary, _especially_ when the evidence is as damning as it is in this one. They will know more about you than you know about yourself."

"I don't know what that means."

Knowing it would push buttons, the attorney adopted a laid back tone as she suggested, "I could ask Agent Booth, but…"

"According to Agent Booth, I am cold fish who makes other people feel stupid," Brennan cut in hotly. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and mumbled under her breath, "Not my fault if he _is_ stupid."

Caroline's mood was soured. She did not know how to get through to this woman. She had tried to let misunderstandings slide, but she was not going to sit and let this scientist woman insult her favorite agent.

"You listen to me, Dr. Brennan. If there's anything, _anything_ the defense could use to discount your testimony – misdemeanors thrown off your record, crazies in your family, strange boyfriends, anything out of the ordinary – I need to know about it now so _I_ am not taken by surprise if _they_ dig it up while you're on the stand."

Brennan's jaw tensed, engaging the attorney in a staring contest. The other woman's face was stone and her eyes were impassioned.

Brennan took a calming breath, knowing she had no choice and broke the silence speaking clinically. "Matthew and Christine Brennan. My parents. They abandoned me when I was fifteen and I ended up in foster care. Their missing person files can tell you anything you need to know. The only other family I have is a brother, Russ, but I haven't seen him or talked to him since shortly after then either. My boyfriend is a physicist at the University." She hated the pit feeling in her stomach she got every time she was forced to talk about her family.

Caroline's demeanor softened as Dr. Brennan continued with more confidence as she gathered her things, "My work is my life. If my expertise can't speak for itself on the stand, that's the jury's problem. I will courier over my copy of the missing person file when I get back to my office though I will need it back when you're finished with it."

The attorney used to having the final word was left speechless as the other exited her office.

On the ground floor of the Hoover building, Brennan stepped out of the elevator bank and pulled her cell phone out. The memory of her family gnawing at her psyche, she needed to work it out of her system. She needed a distraction.

"Hi Pete, It's me. I'm going to have to cancel our plans tonight. I'm going to be working late."


	7. January 2005

**January 2005**

Life was so much simpler without a partner. No one to watch out for. No one to "forget" to put information in the files. No one to have to consult with on opinions.

It had taken weeks to convince Cullen to reassign Agent Gilman. After pawning the poor man off on Agent Burns, it took another few weeks to clean up and organize case files to the point that eighty percent had been solved and the rest were pending results from the bureau's forensics lab. For the first time in months, Booth had the leisure to take care of administrative crap, cleaning off his desk, clearing out unnecessary e-mails and throwing away old notes.

A celebratory lunch was in order. Booth swung his coat on over his suit as he swaggered toward the elevator bank, pleased with himself and his progress.

The agent stepped aside as the elevator doors opened.

A solemn Sam Cullen passed out of the elevator ordering him, "Booth, grab Reilly and Elliot and bring them to my office," before stomping down the hall to his office leaving a stunned Booth in his wake.

Hanging his head in frustration, he stuffed his hands in his pants pockets and sulked back to his desk to remove his winter coat.

Both Reilly and Elliot were senior in rank. What does Cullen want me for, with them? Collecting the agents from their offices, they went directly down the hall.

Booth allowed the senior agents to precede him into their boss's office. They each took a seat in front of the desk leaving the younger agent to stand in the corner behind them.

"I just came from the hospital," he greeted the men. The agent in charge had exhaustion written across his face and his desk was far messier than normal. Reilly and Elliot exchanged worried glances. Cullen didn't normally go to the hospital unless someone needed a healthcare directive delivered or there was family needing comfort. The realities of their own mortality always became much more real whenever one of their own was hurt or killed.

Seeing the worried faces, Cullen quieted their worst fears. "Agent Myers was shot in the shoulder last night. She got lucky, she'll make a full recovery. However, she has requested to return to desk duty instead of fieldwork."

Elliot, known for being a bit of a sexist, rolled his eyes earning himself a dirty look and rebuke from the boss. "This is the first time Myers has been injured in the field and the first time she's felt her life was at risk since her son was born two years ago. I don't blame her for being a little reticent about getting back in the field immediately. This is only temporary. However, her cases still need attention."

Cullen rose pointing to the stacks of files on his desk, "I want you two to take her files and lead or redistribute them as you see fit."

Both men rose from their seats and began piling the stacks to carry out.

"Agent Myers should be back in the office next week. If there are any questions, she can answer them then."

They murmured 'yes, sir's as they filed out and Booth could hear them begin barking names as they began the redistribution of work.

Rearranging the few files left on his desk, Cullen sighed and sank into his chair, putting most of the files into drawers and pulling a few other papers out.

Booth remained where he had been through the entire exchange, just watching, wondering if he was supposed to be there still. Or maybe he was supposed to have been the messenger to bring the other two? That would be strange though since he hadn't been dismissed at any point.

He started to move prompting Cullen to raise his eyes.

"Booth," he picked up the last file remaining on his desk and indicated to the young agent to have a seat. "I want you to take the lead on this Jeremy case, her current case."

"The one that landed her in the hospital?" Already serious, Booth grew more somber. If one agent had already been injured, it made the case that much more dangerous from the onset.

His boss nodded. "She got the ID of the victim this morning and went to notify the victim's next of kin, his brother. Apparently he had a warrant out for his arrest, failure to appear in court over traffic violations. Pshaw, he thought she was coming to arrest him." Shaking his head, Cullen glowered. "The idiot would have had to post bail, pay a fine and get back to life. Now the dumb shit gets to sit in prison for attempted murder and I lose a great field agent."

Seeing Booth open his mouth, he answered preemptively, "He's already been caught and he's not a suspect in his brother's case." He waved dismissively.

Feeling more relaxed, Booth took the file from his boss and flipped the cover open to glance over the summary. "Just out of curiosity, sir, why…"

"Why am I singling you out? He paused, pursing his lips, deciding how much he was willing to share with his agent. "Think of this as a test. Your performance over the last six months has shown remarkable improvement."

Booth's pride began to swell but fell as quickly as Cullen shared, "though I'm not thrilled with your unwillingness to work with others."

"If this is about Agent Gilman, sir…"

Cullen shook his head at his burgeoning agent. "Agent Booth, in all your time at the FBI, the only partner you've stayed with longer than two months was Agent Friedlander when you first started. Quite frankly, I'm sick of the back and forth. This is your chance to try it your way without a word from me: prove to me you don't need a partner."

A glimmer of excitement reached the younger agent's eyes as he closed the file. "I don't know what to say. Thank you sir, you won't be disappointed."

He stood and turned to leave the office.

Cullen called out as he reached the hallway, "Oh, and Booth, don't let me hear that you're using other agents' time on this. You want to work alone, you can do this by yourself."

Booth nodded in acknowledgement, slightly dazed by the last pronouncement, and walked down the hall toward his desk in the bullpen. The moment he turned the corner, he took a deep breath and exhaled heavily.

Alone. On his own. No one else to blame but himself. He grinned. This was going to be great.

A growling stomach reminded him of his original plan to celebrate cleaning up his caseload with lunch. _Add this as another reason to celebrate._ Making a quick detour to his desk to grab his coat once more, Booth kept the file to bring along to Wong Foo's.

Driving alone to the restaurant, the agent began analyzing what little he had gleaned from his meeting with Cullen and the glance in the file.

Obviously, Agent Myers had figured out the victim's identity, Matthew Jeremy, since she had been notifying next of kin. The victim's brother had a rage problem, would the victim have one as well? That wouldn't be known until he could read the file more thoroughly and talk to people who knew the victim.

Apparently, Cullen wasn't too concerned about catching whoever had done it immediately otherwise he wouldn't have forbidden him from using any other agents. They had probably used one of the bureau's profilers and already pegged the perpetrator as someone with a personal vendetta against the victim, someone who wasn't a threat to the general public. At least it didn't sound like he was searching for a serial killer.

Parking, he grabbed his prized file and strutted proud all the way to his favorite establishment, excited for his new challenge.

* * *

"Hey, you're late." Peter flipped the TV off and heaved himself off the couch, walking to meet her in the entry.

Brennan froze momentarily hearing the voice. She had, until that moment forgotten she had made plans for dinner with Peter. Not in the mood for company after her day, she took her irritability out on her boyfriend. Crossly she replied, "When I gave you a key, it was for emergencies only. Not to let yourself in whenever you want." She finished taking off her winter things and stood.

"It was an emergency." He kissed her cheek.

Then she noticed the hollow rattle and sway behind him.

"What the hell is this?" Her eyes widened in shock and flitted between the doorway to the living room and her boyfriend.

"Okay, not an emergency per se, but I did want to surprise you." Peter rubbed his hands together grinning, proud of his inventiveness. Between the entry and the living room hung a curtain of beads in various neutral tones, very tribal, something he was certain was his Tempe's style.

"You said you would _fix_ the door!" Her voice raised an octave in annoyance and she planted her hands on her hips.

Brushing his hand across the beads to make them ripple, he disregarded Brennan's mood. "I did! See? Cool, isn't' it?"

"When you said you would fix it, I expected it to be fixed with an actual door." She huffed towards her bedroom until he spoke again.

"Yeah, well, funds are a little tight right now and doors are a little more expensive than I thought they were." Peter rubbed the back of his neck, refusing to concede that the beads were not comparable to a solid door. "Oh come on," he begged, "it's cool. Plus, we can't break this one slamming it too hard."

"We?!" she scoffed.

After a particularly heated argument the week before, she had slammed the living room door. He had responded by pounding on the cheap door to get her to open it until he accidentally made an indent to the molded composite material.

He put his hands up in surrender. "It will never happen again, I promise."

"Especially since there's still no door." She rolled her eyes and changed direction to walk around him to the kitchen. After working late, she was hungry and they had made plans to cook at home. Taking a breath, she calmly asked, "Have you started making anything for dinner?"

"Not yet, I wanted to see what you wanted to have." He leaned against the wall inside the kitchen.

She paused, irritation boiling once again. "Or you wanted me to do all the work. Typical," she accused him. She pulled a pot out and began filling it with water.

Frustrated that his girlfriend had barely been home two minutes and had been nothing but bitchy to him, he got defensive. Taking a step closer to her he jabbed a finger in her direction. "Oh, don't pull that Tempe. I do the cooking plenty. I made dinner twice last week."

Rather than backing off, she put her face into his angrily. "TWO! Of the FIVE meals we had together last week. And one of the meals you supposedly made was take-out." It was becoming a shouting match.

"Fine, I'll cook tonight." Peter tried to take the wooden spoon from her hand, but she whipped it away, holding it far from him.

"No, you're not. Otherwise you would have started already. You cannot take over something half-finished and then take full credit!"

"I was waiting to see what you wanted to have!" he yelled back.

"Ever hear of a phone? You could have called to ask." she chastised as she collected the box of pasta from the cupboard.

Forcefully quiet but tense, he asked in a false calm, "do you want me to cook or not?"

A moment's internal battle determined tired won out over stubbornness. "Fine." She slapped the wooden spoon into his hand and walked past him to sort through the dropped mail on her counter.

After giving Brennan a few minutes time to calm down, he worked up the courage to enquire about her mood. "Did you have a fight with Angela or something?"

"No, why?" She dropped the junk mail into the recycling bin.

"You're extra… _feisty_ tonight." He chose his adjective carefully.

Sighing and closing her eyes, she admitted, "I identified some World War I remains this morning belonging to a fifteen year old kid. I was finishing the report this afternoon." She didn't mention a bothersome phone message left by a certain agent. He had left her alone for weeks. She couldn't understand why he would be calling again.

"Which is why you were late. I should know by now that it's always work. Sorry." His work was as important to him, he understood it was priority. He came up and hugged Brennan's waist from behind, kissing her neck.

Releasing his girlfriend, Peter suggested, "Why don't you go change? I'll start frying the hamburger."

With a nod, Brennan padded into her bedroom and started removing her jewelry.

"What do you want to do tonight?" Peter yelled down the hall.

Reappearing in the kitchen, she spoke at a normal volume as she began opening the few non-junk pieces of mail. "I have an article about a skeleton from the late Pleistocene era found on Flores Island I've been meaning to read for the last two months. It's a very exciting find."

Watching the hamburger fry, he asked, "The skeleton or the article?" When no answer was forthcoming, he turned to find his girlfriend engrossed in a letter. "Earth to Temperance," he teased.

"They accepted it!" Brennan sounded nearly giddy.

"What?" His calm contradicted her excitement.

She looked up, eyes shining brightly. "My book! They want to publish my book. I'm going to be a published author."

Still unperturbed, Peter was confused. "You've had works published before, what's the big deal?"

"I've had research articles published. Being the best in my field, I _should_ have my research published easily. I need to call the publisher and set up a meeting." Grinning wide, she danced toward her house phone.

"Does this mean you'll let me read it now?"

Calling the number listed in the letter, she put the phone to her ear while responding, "You can read it when it's published."

"Seriously? Your friend from work got to read it." He didn't care about the book, but he was jealous of the closeness Temperance shared with her friend versus himself.

Dividing her attention between listening to the ring and responding, "Angela. And she only read parts of it because I wanted her feedback." Brennan hung up the phone having gotten the automated voice telling her the publishing office was closed for the evening.

"And you trust her more than me," he grew petulant facing off with the woman in front of him.

"Don't be so childish, Pete."

Raising his voice he complained, "I'm childish? For what? For pointing out that you trust Angela more than you trust your boyfriend? For wanting to read your book?"

She spun to face him. "No, you're childish for whining about it."

"Well excuse me for wanting to be part of something important to you." His fiery eyes met her icy ones.

Each stood rooted to their spot, staring each other down. The only sound to be heard was their own aggravated breathing and the overdone hamburger sizzling in its pan. The angry quiet was broken by the sudden shrieking of the smoke detector.

"Argh! Just… fine. Take the manuscript and go home Pete. I don't feel like fighting anymore tonight." Brennan rushed around her boyfriend to remove the pan from the heat and dump the burnt food in the trash.

"Fine. I'll call you later." He left the stack of papers where they lay and walked out, heading to the bar.


	8. February 2005

I still love this show. There is so much to glean about the characters, so many nuances they include in such subtle ways. Happened to watch a season one episode the other day and discovered from just a passing comment, that this chapter was all wrong. Since my goal is to be completely in sync with the show, I had to rewrite the whole thing. That said, it is a GOAL and I've already discovered a few things I would change in earlier chapters. Feel free to point out discrepancies though. I have thick skin and I welcome the challenge :)

* * *

 **February 2005**

Three weeks. Three weeks Booth had been assigned the case without significant headway. Five and a half since Mr. Jeremy's body had been found. The victim's elderly mother's health was failing, too, adding to the pressure of finding who had done this.

Booth looked to the ceiling for answers he would not find there. His gut told him the answer was some blocks away probably doing something squinty.

The FBI forensics lab had done all they could. With the body, with the victim's clothes, with the dirt that had lain under the victim's body. No one there had seen injuries on a body exactly like this. Thanks to Cullen's orders, Booth couldn't even brainstorm with the other agents for ideas.

He had one last hope: Agent Myers had already contracted with Dr. Brennan and the Jeffersonian for help with the forensics. Unfortunately, he had no idea how get the information _from_ her since she wasn't taking his calls and he couldn't wrangle another agent to make the call since he wasn't allowed to use anyone else on the case.

Focusing on the file laid out on his desk again, he picked up a small ball and began tossing it back and forth between his hands, mimicking the interplay within his mind.

 _She's already agreed to work this case._

 _But that was with Myers, before it was handed off to me. If she won't take my calls, what's the point of trying? The lab has already been over everything anyway._

 _Then again, even if our lab hasn't been able to find anything useful, Bones can. She said she's the best in the world and she did work a miracle on Gemma's case._

 _But those remains were down to the skeleton. This is a corpse. The only bones to see are on x-rays._

 _What other options do I have? You have to at least try._

Something in his gut continued nagging him. _She holds the answer._

Before he could decide against it, he lurched forward and dialed the long-ago memorized number.

"Jeffersonian Forensics lab, how can I help you?"

"Dr. Brennan, please." He'd been through all this before.

"One moment." The man answering the phones put him on hold and began the transfer.

Booth leaned back in his chair cradling the receiver between his ear and shoulder and waited for her voicemail to leave a message.

"This is Brennan."

He almost dropped the phone as he sprang upright. "Hi, um, wow, hi. You actually answered your phone. This is Special Agent Seeley Booth with the FBI," he stammered.

Clenching her jaw, she cursed herself inwardly for absent-mindedly answering her phone. With a clear, steady, authoritative voice, she asked reluctantly, "What do you want Booth?"

"It's nice talking to you again." His thoughts jumbled in the shock of speaking directly with her, he could hardly remember why he had called.

"If you're just calling to chit-chat, I'm going to hang up. I am very busy."

"Right, right." He stopped himself from making a quip about what's another day after already waiting two thousand years. "I actually have a case I'd like your expertise on."

"The FBI has its own forensics department. I suggest you check with them."

"They do. I have." He rubbed his brow while taking a calming breath. "They've already given me all they can and they don't have anyone qualified enough for what I want."

She saved the report on her computer, multitasking while he attempted to charm his way through.

Without humility but without meaning to brag either, she asserted, "You're going to have to be more specific. I have three doctorate degrees and am qualified in multiple areas." She glanced over some reports as she half listened to him.

Booth mumbled to himself, "What is it with you and your doctorate degrees? I get it, you're smart."

"I've earned my credentials, have you?"

Apparently, it wasn't to himself as much as he thought. "More than you know" he shot back. "Can you help or not? I have this body…"

Interrupting him, she wanted to get off the phone as quickly as possible. "I am not in the mood to play your game of let's-see-if-she-can-figure-it-out-without-any-information. I have…"

Patience worn out, he cut her off brusquely, "His name is Matthew Jeremy, age 46. Six foot two inches, about two hundred pounds."

Brennan looked up and set the reports down. Booth was actually sharing information with her? He had her full attention as he continued, "He was single at the time of his disappearance. Parents are in a nursing home, one brother he rarely saw, and an ex-wife who lives five hundred miles away and hasn't had contact with him in over ten years. No kids. He was a home remodeler and woodworker from Virginia. Last seen at a house construction site. His body was found dumped off a trail on Theodore Roosevelt Island, beaten with atypical stab wounds. It took our lab over two weeks to sort out his identity due to the condition of the body. No drag marks at the scene and our team estimated he had only been dead twelve hours tops when he was found. Cause of death: internal bleeding caused by a combination of blunt and sharp force trauma."

Silence greeted him as he paused for a breath. Had she hung up on him? "Hello?"

"What do you mean atypical stab wounds?" Her mind was actively cataloguing all the different types of contusions she had ever observed, trying to decide which had been the most unusual.

With a sigh of relief that she hadn't hung up and feeling more hopeful since she was asking questions, Booth answered, "If it was a knife, it isn't like any other knife wound I've ever seen. They've ruled out common tools like screwdrivers, chisels, pickaxes, you get the idea."

More silence greeted him. This time he waited more patiently.

Finally she spoke. "You already have his identity and cause of death. What do expect from me?"

Booth leaned on one arm as he grew thoughtful, "Well, here's the problem. He was a devout, practicing, ultra-conservative…"

"The family is refusing an autopsy." Brennan interjected.

"Yeah." The agent looked down at the file resting on the desk. This was the sticking point that left him feeling the most defeated. "No judge is going to order one since we already have cause of death."

Going back to looking over her reports, Brennan snapped, "I don't know what you expect me to do if you already have identification and cause of death."

"Anything." He sat up straighter, praying against hope that she wouldn't shoot him down and hang up. "Agent Myers has a note in the file that she sent you the coroner's x-rays three weeks ago, the day _she_ was shot. That's why she never followed up with you."

Brennan's eyes darted to the forgotten oversized manila envelope half buried on the corner of her desk.

"If you've already looked at them, great, just send me your notes. If not, you already have the packet. Would you just look to see if you see anything else, any…? I don't know, clues as to the weapon or something. _Anything_." Something sounding a lot like desperation came through his voice.

"Yes, I have them, but I don't have time to look at them, Booth."

"You already have the information. Just glance at them. It would take you, what? Ten minutes?"

"I'm very busy."

If flattery wouldn't work, it was time to try another tactic. He shifted effortlessly. "I get it. You need actual bones to be sitting in front of you. You can't trust yourself when it's only x-rays images. Don't worry about it, I understand! Just send the packet back to the office so I can…"

"Excuse me!" Brennan's flustered self couldn't let him finish. He had gained her full attention once more. "I do not _need_ ,… I _frequently_ use x-rays and I read them _very_ well!" She was nearly yelling into the phone.

If interrogation room experiences had taught him anything, he knew he was getting closer if she was getting this riled. Booth maintained his cool, purposely aggravating her. "You don't have to make excuses to me. It's fine," he jabbed.

"I can do it," she shocked them both into momentary silence: she for consenting, and he for how quickly she had given in.

Booth was the first to recover. Speaking quickly, "Great. Give me a call when you're done to let me know what you can get out of them," and he hung up before she could renege. He interlaced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back sighing. This was his Hail Mary.

Brennan stared at the phone in her hand. What had just happened? If she believed in superstition, she would have thought the universe had conspired against her this week.

Just the day before, Zach had been sent home with the flu. He hadn't wanted to leave Dr. Brennan with his work on top of her own but Dr. Goodman had insisted. He would find a way to make it work. Brennan didn't fault Zach by any means, but her only acceptable solution to Goodman's 'make it work' attitude was to do the work herself.

She really was too busy, but Booth's reference to 'atypical stab wounds' intrigued her.

The FBI forensics lab had decades of experience within its walls. Even if they didn't have her level of expertise, if they were calling the wounds atypical, it had to be something peculiar. If nothing else, it would be an interesting study and challenge. Deciding her curiosity was stronger than her dislike of the agent, she decided she would look at the x-rays.

She pulled her lab coat on. The reports that she had been working on could wait until tomorrow or could be done from home later in the evening. There were bones to examine if she was going to add to her already long to-do list.

Brennan walked with purpose to an examination room to finish the skull reconstruction prep Zach had left only partially complete.

Twenty minutes later, satisfied with the tissue depth marker placements, she rolled the skull on a cart through the lab towards Angela's office.

Hodgins fell in step with her as she rounded the corner out of the exam room and handed her an envelope. "This just came, I signed for you."

Pausing briefly to look at the packet, Brennan thought aloud, "That was fast." She continued down the hall dismissing the entomologist with a "Thank you Dr. Hodgins."

Jack followed alongside until she stopped short, unnerved by his shadowing her. "Is there something else you needed Dr. Hodgins?" she asked testily.

"That came from the FBI," he stated factually. "I want in if the FBI needs help on another homicide investigation." His eyes glittered as he rubbed his hands together mischievously.

" _I_ am looking at some x-rays. That's all," she retorted, stressing the 'I'.

"That's all the FBI wants? Just to look at some x-rays?" Hodgins's face gave way to disgust. "Way to get a man's hopes up."

"I don't know what else you were expecting Dr. Hodgins."

"Did I hear you say you're helping the FBI?" Angela stepped out of her office to join them.

"Purely for scientific study." Brennan rolled the cart with the skull closer to her friend. "Here is the skull for the remains on the table in the exam room."

Grimacing at the skull, the artist dead-panned, "Lucky me."

Brennan ignored the comment, ready to escape more questions. "If anyone needs me, I will be back in the exam room for the next ten minutes to use the light mounts to analyze these images." She turned on the heel or her boot and quickly made her way to the privacy of the smaller examination room.

Brennan pulled the small stack of films from the envelope. The top images were not x-rays but rather autopsy photographs showing the battered body's bruising and stab wounds. _Atypical is the appropriate adjective_ thought Brennan as she studied the pictures. Pulling her recorder from her pocket she began. "Victim identified by the FBI forensics lab as Matthew Jeremy. Autopsy photos show puncture wounds, inconsistent with standard knives. Additionally, the remains indicate massive blunt force trauma to the torso and head."

Stopping her recorder, she mused to herself, "It's no wonder the FBI lab couldn't determine the weapon without an autopsy. With this much soft tissue damage…"

She set the pictures down and moved on to the x-rays. After studying them a few moments she began recording again. "Victim's x-rays show no indication of osteoarthritis and bone density appears normal for an individual in his mid-fifties. My professional recommendation would be to procure a bone density test for higher accuracy if one has not been performed already. There are multiple fractures across… there appears to be a pattern shown by bone breaks to the right clavicle, right ribs one and two, and left ribs five through seven, they appear to be fractured in a linear pattern. The sternum shows damage consistent with single strike causing all these breaks. Zooming in, on the anterior aspect of the right first rib, the break in incomplete but effected a ninety degree nick in the bone. Fractures to the victim's left iliac crest as well as left ulna and radius suggest a defensive position at one point during the attack." _This poor man knew what was happening to him all the way to the very end._

Two hours later, Angela stuck her head in the room. "There you are, I expected you to be back in your office by now."

Brennan turned the recorder off and looked up as her friend added, "I've finished the facial reconstruction when you're ready for it."

Distractedly, the scientist answered, "Thanks Angela. I'll get to it as soon as I'm done with this."

"I thought this little project was only getting ten minutes. It's been almost two hours you know."

"I guess I lost track of time." She looked bewildered at the films again.

Angela began to leave but paused on second thought. "Everything alright, Sweetie?"

"I know exactly which strike caused death. I know the size of the perpetrator. But I cannot make out what the weapon is." She hated that she could not solve this mystery.

Tipping her head in empathy for her friend, Angela suggested, "Sounds like more than what they had to begin with. Why don't you call Booth and let him take a whack at it."

Brennan sighed in defeat. "I suppose it's only rational. I have too much to do to spend any more time on this than I already have."

Despite her initial reluctance to help, she had found enjoyment in the puzzle. Knowing it would help put a killer away in prison helped drive the energy she had derived in doing something so purposeful.

Angela walked off and, half reluctantly, Brennan returned the images in their original folder and went back to her office to willingly call a certain agent she had avoided talking to for months.

He was quick to answer. "Booth."

"You tricked me into doing this." Her voice was calm and her tone was polite, but accusing at the same time.

Booth reclined at his desk and smirked. She had actually looked at it. _And_ she had looked at them right away, even though she had been so emphatic in her statement that she was too busy. He was smug at his victory. "You could have said no," he reminded her.

Unwilling to admit he was correct, the Brennan launched into her findings. "Your killer is left handed, probably between six foot two and six foot four, most likely male due to the strength required…"

"Wait," Booth shot forward, "you got that from the x-rays? How?"

"While the victim was brutally beaten everywhere on his torso, the more damaging fracturing always occurred on the left side of the victim's body meaning the killer's predominant arm is his or her left. I have estimated the height given the height of the victim and the location of the injuries."

"And his strength?" Booth was furiously taking notes so he wouldn't forget a detail.

Getting annoyed at his interruption, her tone became tense though the recipient took no notice. "The remains show no evidence of any contusions on the victim's back which means the assault occurred from the front. For how often the victim was struck, the blows must have come hard and in quick succession."

"Doesn't mean he saw the attack coming. He could have been blindsided." This was nothing he didn't know already.

"Yes, but the victim was a large, physically strong man himself. He would have been able to overpower anyone weaker, even after the first hit. That, and you said there were no drag marks at the dump site. Whoever left the body was obviously very strong to carry two hundred pounds of dead weight. Even if they had someone helping them dispose of the body." She paused, alert to the scribbling sounds of him writing on the other end, letting him catch up.

When the scratching stopped, she continued, "I believe the weapon to be a cuboid, at least three feet long."

Booth's brow crinkled in confusion, "A cube-what-now?"

"A cuboid." Brennan pursed her lips, deciding how to describe it for him. "Like a cube except elongated. It is at least three feet long and exactly one inch tall as well as wide. Given the size of the weapon and the fact that it was swung, I would suggest focusing on wooden object. Solid metals that wouldn't maleate themselves upon impact would be too heavy. Also, the small side of the cuboid has a three inch protuberance with a blunt end sticking out from the center."

All this time, Booth was roughly sketching as she described the weapon. His serious expression turned to confusion. "But what is it?"

"I don't know, but that is what it looks like. The same weapon is responsible for the blunt and sharp force traumas."

"How could you know that?" _She got all that from pictures of bones in two and a half hours? I don't think so._

"Do you not believe me?"

Booth thundered, "How can I? This was a mistake asking for your help. I have a murder case riding on this. And all I got is a weird shape without a name and squint-speak I don't understand."

Brennan clenched her jaw to respond as professionally as possible, "Fine. Everything your lab needs will be in my notes. I will courier everything back this afternoon." _Still that arrogant, condescending jackass he always was. Note to self: tell Zach to never put him through again._

"Fine. Thanks." _Thanks for nothing._

What was he thinking? He never took her to be a liar or a saboteur, but what else could he think? She was trying to screw up his case just because she hated him.

When the package came back, he'd forward it to the lab to see if they could confirm _any_ of what she came up with. Until then, he would start at the beginning again. He grabbed his coat to go revisit the housing development where Matthew had last been seen.


	9. March 2005

Please excuse the religious spam that was posted as a "review" last chapter. I am working on getting it removed. I have changed my settings to now approve reviews (sorry it has to come to that) but I promise to allow all reviews as long as they are not spam. Even if you say this is the worst story ever posted to fanfiction in its history.

* * *

 **March 2005**

Damnit, Bones had been right. One of Matthew Jeremy's subcontractors had used a spindle from the staircase they were working on to beat and stab the man to death over a fifty dollar discrepancy on his paycheck. It was always about the money. And since Booth had been the one to crack the case, it seemed he was put on as secondary for every difficult homicide investigation, leading small teams of newbie agents.

Despite the strides the case had made for his career, it needled him that every single detail she had provided, from the killer's height to the length of the protuberance on the weapon (a bolt on the bottom of the spindle), had been correct. It was a rarity for his gut instinct to disappoint him, and it had failed miserably when he doubted her.

The combination of dealing with inferior agents, being bested by a squint, and doubting his own intuition drove him to take his frustrations out on everyone around him.

Pops was no exception to being on the tail end of the agent's cranky attitude, getting shorter answers and more one-sided conversations during their twice-weekly phone calls. This was too out of character for it to slide with Hank. He knew the man well enough to know he wouldn't talk unless forced, something impossible to do over the phone. He left a single message telling his grandson when and where to meet him, praying he would come.

Hank arrived at the diner early, partly to secure a table, but more so because he couldn't stand the waiting at home any longer. He smiled broadly when he saw a stony faced Booth walk through the door, relieved he had come. He rose to hug the younger man as he greeted him, "Thanks for meeting me for lunch. I haven't seen you in a while."

"Anytime, Pops." The grave agent tucked his aviator glasses in the interior pocket of his suit as he sat across from his grandfather.

Taking a moment to scrutinize the young man's face, Hank noticed Booth's eyes lacked their usual luster and his mouth was set in a stern line. "You doing alright, squirt?" he asked, the concern evident in his voice.

"I'm fine." Booth moved the salt and pepper shakers to the side of the table and grabbed a menu so he wouldn't have to look his grandfather in the eye.

"You didn't inherit that charm smile from me just to hide it away," the older man teased, demonstrating the smile. Studying Booth's face, Hank's own fell. Gently, he insisted, "Talk to me Seeley."

Booth's eyes glanced up to the worried ones across from him. There was no use hiding anything from Pops so he might as well share. Setting the menu aside, he stammered, "It's… I…" He sighed, he had no idea how to begin. "Nothing I do is good enough. I'm trying to get my life back on track here but I don't know where I'm going."

"No one said it would be easy," Hank pointed sternly, "You need to be thanking God for the good in your life." He relented at the sight of guilt across the table. "I'm proud of you for quitting that gambling nonsense, if _I_ count for anything."

"Then why did life go in the shitter _after_ I quit?" he argued.

"How so?" Hank's brow furrowed.

"You want specifics?" Booth challenged, irritated at his meddling.

Understanding his grandson was having his own pity-party, he called his bluff, "You tell me just how lousy your life is and I'll show you your blessings."

"I don't know where you find the blessing in being chewed out by your boss," the agent pouted, looking out the window.

"Easy. You _have_ a job. What were you in trouble for?"

"Oh one of my junior agents made a stupid mistake I didn't catch right away." He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, acutely aware that he could and should have prevented Agent Jones from contaminating evidence.

"You're a grown-up. Deal."

Booth scowled.

Hank bit his lip, catching too late his error in trying to use tough love when Booth so obviously needed some compassion. More gently, he amended himself. "You're a good agent, I'm sure your boss is just making sure you are the best you can be."

Booth knew Pops was right and hated it. Since when had everyone else become right all the time? Complaining, Booth slouched in his seat, "I'm just tired of being the scapegoat for everyone. First, Rebecca blamed me - took my visitation rights away - and now Cullen blaming me for others, I'm sick of the bullshit."

Pops nodded his head in compassion as he leaned forward over folded hands on the table. "I grant you Rebecca was unfair. But put yourself in her shoes. She's protecting her son – same as you would do. You lost her trust long before, it had nothing to do with gambling. Bet you cherish the time you get with Parker even more now."

"I _never_ took my time with Parker for granted," Booth ground out. "And she still won't let me have him for overnights yet."

"I know, but you're making progress with her. She lets you have afternoons with him."

Booth made eye contact and relaxed his face. Rubbing his cheek, he soldiered on, "Okay fine, what about losing my apartment."

"First, that was six months ago. Hardly current events. Second, you found out who your real friends are. Besides now you're in a nice house. You never would have even dreamed of being in a house before."

"Yeah, real nice," he rolled his eyes. That wary gut feeling he'd had when Sid offered him the house had proven accurate when he realized the extent of repairs that needed to be done. "I've had to fix the plumbing under every damn sink in that place."

Hank threw his hands in the air as he chuckled jovially with a ready answer. "And now you know the plumbing is good! Welcome to adulthood, son. Besides, the ladies love a man who knows how fix things," he finished with a wink.

"Ha! What ladies?" He couldn't help but smirk, hiding a chuckle at Pops' response.

The senior folded his hands on the table again and asked seriously, "What happened to Crystal?"

"Turns out ladies aren't crazy about guys who get evicted."

"You didn't fight for her once you got the house?" Hank's brow crinkled.

Booth shrugged a non-answer as he took a sip of water.

"I see. Well, if she wasn't the one, you're better off being a free agent until you do meet her."

Instantly, he was in the lecture hall at American University eight months earlier, lost in a moment. Snapping back to reality, he frowned sadly, "And how do you know when you do?"

"I thought we already went over this." He narrowed his eyes as he propped up on an elbow, resting his head in hand.

Booth chewed his lower lip anxiously before admitting quietly, "I had that moment."

"What moment?" An eyebrow quirked, his ears doubting they had heard correctly.

His eyes darted across the table as he spoke low, "The one you talked about. How you just know."

Hank leaned in and patted the younger man's hand. Obviously, this story had not reached a happy ending.

Sniggering wryly as he picked up his glass, "My gut never steers me wrong but apparently I was dead wrong on this one," and he took a drink.

"A victim?!" Hank's eyes widened, horrified.

He choked on his water, coughing and sputtering before he could exclaim, "No! Pops, no!" screwing his face, disgusted at the idea.

"What's her name?"

 _Damn his ability to read me._ "Doesn't matter. I worked with this woman a couple times. The moment I saw her, I knew. At least, I thought I knew." Booth crossed his arms and rested them on the table. "Last time we spoke, my gut told me she was lying and I basically told her so. Turned out she was right about everything. Now she wants nothing to do with me so…"

"So you try again." Hank was adamant.

"I'm not going to harass her until she dates me! It's hard enough getting her to answer when its work related!"

"So you _are_ trying." He couldn't help the hint of smile reaching his lips. He'd never known his grandson to give up when he knew he was right.

"Nope, that ship has sailed." He smiled, slow and sad as his memory of her crossed his mind. "She's brilliant at what she does but she drives me mad. She's so arrogant, I'm not sure there's enough crow in the world to eat to get her to forgive me for doubting her."

"What did you say?" Hank gave him a knowing look.

Smirking, he decided not to admit to anything. "Doesn't matter. She's stubborn as hell."

Matching the younger man's smirk, it sounded like just the person to match his grandson's own ego. He sighed contentedly, comfortable that the perfect storm of irritations would pass and Booth would get back to his normal self eventually. "Well don't get too down about it all. Things will turn up for you. Don't get me wrong, it won't happen overnight, but it'll happen eventually. Everything always does."

"Sure, Pops. If you say so." He doubted the man, but for once, he hoped to be proven wrong.

* * *

The hectic weeks of the month prior had ebbed into a slow crawl for Dr. Brennan: Zach's return from Michigan had alleviated the burden of all the analysis and reports that had been due, she had submitted an article to the National Forensic Journal and had not yet decided on her next topic of study, the University was heading into mid-terms and spring break so no lectures were on her horizon, her book was in its last stages of finalization before printing at the publishers, and to cap off her frustrations, the shipment of bones and artifacts they had been expecting from Belize the week before had been delayed indefinitely due to political unrest.

It was a rare time that the group as a whole had little to do. Dr. Goodman took the opportunity to take a few days off to spend with his family, Angela was in her office experimenting with connecting multiple systems, Dr. Brennan and Zach had taken a set of unidentified remains from the bone room and laid him out on the center examination table of the platform and Dr. Hodgins sat at a high powered microscope just below the rail from them. The only sounds came from pens clicking and scratching out notes, bones tapping the table as they were set down, and buzzing from the various machines and lights in the room.

"Hey Bren!"

Three scientists entirely engrossed in their work each jumped at the unexpected voice.

"Are you trying to make me impale my eyes on this?" the wild haired man studying blowfly larvae secretions accused from below.

"Sorry down there." She peered over the railing briefly, rolling her eyes.

Settling immediately back to the task in hand, Brennan greeted the artist half annoyed without looking up. "Do you need me for something?"

"No, there were no gooey parts up here though so I figured it was safe to come hang out while I wait." Angela hoisted herself onto a side table, ignoring Brennan's irritation, and began playing with a ring on her finger.

"Wait for what?" Brennan's brow creased as the squinted at the mandible of the skull she was holding.

"I found a graphic simulator platform developed by someone who used to work here, some Dr. Brinkley, so it's already owned by the Jeffersonian. I want to expand the platform and use it to create a program that can run simulations in 3-D."

Hodgins leaned his arms on the lower rail to join the conversation above him making Angela jump, "That'll make Goodman happy – won't cost him a penny."

Ignoring the interruption from behind, she explained, "I'm hoping it can combine me and my artistry with a computer's efficiency but it's taking forever for the computer to convert the old code to my fancy computer's technology specs."

Zach thought aloud, "Part Angela, part computer. Kind of like a cyborg." The intern's eyes stayed glued to the femur though his mind was only mostly absorbed in studying the bone.

Brennan raised her eyes to cast a curious glance to her student and then raised her entire head to face her friend and ask, "If a computer can do your job, what will you do? Any one of us is perfectly capable of entering variables."

"An Angela Terminator." Zach continued murmuring to himself, oblivious to the chuckles and amused looks of two and the confused stare from his mentor.

"Hopefully by the time it's ready, I will have saved enough to go back to Paris." Angela immediately got lost in her own world with a dreamy smile across her face.

"She's the Angelator," Zach mono-toned in a poor imitation of Arnold, snapping Angela back into reality.

"Zach!" Brennan snapped, exasperated at his distraction.

The young man's head snapped up, suddenly realizing what he had been doing, and hunched his shoulders over the table in embarrassment.

Holding the skull by the face, Brennan commanded her assistant, "Come examine these striations across the external occipital crest."

While Zach made his way around the examination table, Angela hopped off her perch and wheeled around to chat with Jack through the rails. "Okay, what is up with him?" she questioned.

"I'm guessing he watched The Terminator. I suggested it yesterday and it was on TV last night. Creepy movie." Hodgins shuddered as he spoke.

"Creepy?" she looked at him incredulously. "It's an 80's science fiction film! The only thing creepy about it is Zach's impression," and she snickered at the young man's expense.

Jack's eyes grew wild as he began to rant, "What's creepy is the government's desire to create half-human half-robot creatures. An all-powerful army could easily control the…"

" _Doctor_ Hodgins!" Brennan chastised from across the platform, "Please keep your conspiracy theories to yourself. This is a lab, we are _scientists_. If you want to conjecture, go study mathematics."

"It could happen," he grumbled to Angela but she had already returned her focus back to Zach and Brennan.

"Jack!" It was evident in Brennan's voice that her patience was completely gone. "If you cannot maintain rational thought in my presence, keep yourself and your comments down below the rail."

Hodgins slid away from the rail, snapping his rubber band repeatedly as he sat back at his microscope.

Brennan watched him slink away before calmly asking Zach, "What do you see Mr. Addy?"

Without blinking, the student answered definitively, "Osteopathia striata without cranial sclerosis on the occipital, as well as a remodeled hairline fracture on the right parietal bone."

"That is correct. I estimate the hairline fracture occurred about ten years ante-mortem. Please run a search through the medical record database for all Caucasian men who sustained a head injury to the right side of the head between 1931 and 1935."

"Right away Dr. Brennan." Zach moved to the computers at the side of the platform as Brennan peeled her gloves off, walking briskly to her office.

Angela skipped quickly to catch up and walked with her the rest of the way. "You all right, sweetie? You're a little snippy today, even for you. Did Agent Booth start calling again?"

"He's actually only called twice since he tricked me into looking at those x-rays. Once to tell me they apprehended the killer of that case and once to ask for help again." An almost imperceptible smile graced her lips, remembering the courtesy.

"I thought you swore you were never going to take his calls again." Angela smirked in accusation. _She_ would take the handsome man's calls _any_ day.

"I haven't. Zach took the messages." Brennan sat at her desk and shuffled papers in an effort to distract them both.

"Okay, if _he_ isn't currently irritating you, what is? You usually have a little more patience with Jack's crazy ideas, especially when the lab is so quiet." Angela sat in the chair across from the desk and gave her friend a sympathetic smile.

Brennan pushed her chair back from her desk, hesitated, then walked to the door and closed it. Facing Angela, she steeled her face in a neutral expression as she admitted, "I've been having recurring dreams lately. I find them to be of a disconcerting nature and I have allowed myself to become distracted by them during the day."

"What are your nightmares about?" The sympathy morphed into concern.

"They aren't nightmares. They're," she paused a moment, closing her eyes to center herself, "definitely more on the pleasurable end of the spectrum." She dropped into her desk chair.

"Oooh, sex dreams." Angela's eyes popped wide as she broke into an enormous smile. "Okay, dish. You dreaming of Peter doing something super kinky?" She leaned her elbows on the desk as she leaned in.

"It's not kinky!" Brennan exclaimed. "And it isn't even Peter," she confessed more quietly as she pretended to focus on the files once again.

Angela's eyes could not open any wider. This was a new side to her friend. "Bren! Fantasy man, even better."

Brennan's silence spoke volumes.

The artist drew back as he mouth shaped an 'O'. "Wait, it's someone you know?! Is it Jack?"

"What? Angela, no!" the scientist glanced up before standing to move more papers.

"Zach?"

"Of course not!" She turned around to her shelves to avoid Angela's reading gaze.

"Dr. Goodman?"

"Angela, stop." Brennan had to make her friend quit before she guessed every man they knew of common acquaintance. She wouldn't be able to hide the truth from her face if she guessed a certain FBI agent. "It doesn't matter _who_ it is."

"Is it good at least?"

"Angela!" Brennan finally looked her friend in the eye. Angela held her questioning stare until Brennan admitted guiltily, "I orgasmed in my sleep."

"Whoa. That doesn't sound like a problem to me. My advice sweetie, just ride the waves." Angela stood, beaming at her friend and walked out of her office.

Brennan rubbed her temples. She was conflicted. She was annoyed with Booth to be certain. But he pleasured her like no one ever had in her dreams. She should not derive so much pleasure from _him_ doing such intimate things to herself. Sure, she had suggested sex to him the previous summer, but that was before he had to be insensitive and condescending and a jackass. And yet, in her dreams, he comforted her and she initiated the intimacy. It was peaceful being with him. She hadn't seen him since last summer, why was he starting to haunt her at night now? She hated him for it.


	10. April 2005

**April 2005**

He wasn't certain how it happened, but here was, having an almost friendly conversation with _her_. "I'm really glad we could work things out," he told her over the phone.

"As am I," the woman on the other end conceded. "I look forward to working with you." There was a softness to her voice, his gut didn't quite trust.

"Maybe I'll have to swing by with some work right away," he simpered as he swaggered down a blank hallway.

He snapped his phone shut loudly behind her ear, startling her to spin and face him. In an instant, he was lost in her translucent blue eyes.

"Hi." It didn't matter who spoke.

She smiled saucily and inclined her head as she took a step into his personal space. He gently brushed a strand of hair off her cheek and leaned in to gently touch a restrained kiss to her lips, slowly pulling back. She smiled and pulled him in by his lapels for a second, more passionate kiss. He instantly matched her intensity. When they pulled back a moment later, wide smiles quietly erupted on each of their faces. He could easily spend the day testing his lips against hers.

"I told you this would go somewhere."

Closing his eyes in anticipation, he leaned forward again before he was unexpectedly interrupted.

"Booth!" an agent barked as he knocked on Booth's desk.

"Bones!" Booth's head jerked off his propped hand, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. The coffee after last night's stakeout had not done its job.

"Beg pardon?" a man five years Booth's senior smirked, failing in his attempt to hide the amusement he felt at finding the agent asleep at his desk.

Recognizing the voice, he looked up to see the other man. "Friedlander!" His attention awoke and he shook the other agent's hand. "It's been a long time. How are things on the fifth floor?"

"Fine, just fine." Agent Friedlander muffled his chuckles as he teased, "Sounded like an interesting dream there."

"I was, it was, uh, just about the case I'm working on. I think the lab missed something on the bones. I need to have them look over the remains again," Booth deflected. "What can I help you with?"

The other man took a deep breath as he fixed his features with a grave countenance. "We've been assigned as partners again."

"What?!" Booth jumped to his feet, his chair flying backwards and toppling over as he ranted to himself, "No, that can't be right. Cullen made me jump through hoops to work independently. Sans partner. Alone. What the hell? No offense Alan." He finally remembered the man who had brought the news only to look over to find the man shaking with suppressed laughter.

Each of the men had tremendous passion for his work. They had started off well enough together when Booth was new to the bureau and willing to learn. However, as Booth absorbed interrogation and detective techniques, his gut instinct helped him become as good as, if not better than his partner – at least when he bothered to be at work – and he began to carry himself in a prideful manner that made his partner find him overconfident. Friedlander would never admit to jealously he felt for the younger man's quick mind but he had been exceptionally vocal in his complaints about Booth's frequent absences and minimal hours.

Since their partnership had been severed, Friedlander had been promoted higher than Booth, giving him a sense of vindication which had subsequently erased all evidence of ill-will towards Booth, and it was the younger man's turn to have a mild taste of envy whenever they met.

"I'm kidding," Friedlander soothed, patting Booth on the shoulder. "By the time we were split, I couldn't stand working with you. Man, it is way too easy to get you fired up."

The only response Booth gave was a glare as he picked up his chair and allowed himself to fall heavily back into it.

"Don't act so offended. You didn't want us to be partners anymore either."

"Thanks for that. I'm assuming you had a reason for stopping by," Booth couldn't help but bite back as he picked up the files that had scattered upon his abrupt wakening.

The ruddy faced agent smirked as he put his hands in his pockets. "No, Cullen wants to see us. It should only take a couple minutes," he motioned towards their boss's office with his head.

"Us?" Booth's brow knitted in consternation as he stood and they began walking together. "Shit. So he _could_ be making us partners again."

"No," Friedlander said decisively.

Booth threw the other man a sideways glance as he suggested, "So you know what this is about."

"Yes."

"And you're purposely being evasive now." Booth's jaw tensed as he cricked his neck, trying to release some of the building annoyance.

"Yes." Friedlander grinned, knowing full well what he was doing to his former partner.

Booth put his hand out to stop Alan before they rounded the corner to Cullen's office. "Okay, tell me this at least. What do you have to do with me if it isn't re-partnering us?"

Choosing his words wisely, the older agent sighed, "I was your longest partner, so I know your work style better than anyone else." He turned into the office before Booth could respond, leaving the younger agent no choice but to follow.

"Took you long enough to get here, Friedlander," snapped Cullen. "I have another meeting in ten minutes so let's make this quick. Take a seat."

"Sorry, sir," Alan pressed his lips together in remorse.

Addressing Booth, Cullen started, "I'm sure you've guessed why I called you in today."

"I think my presence has thrown him off," Friedman divulged.

Flicking a glance at the more senior agent, Cullen refocused on Booth. "Normally when an agent seems ready for promotion, we interview their _current_ partner."

Booth's shoulders broadened imperceptibly, hope rising in his gut.

"But since you've insisted on not _having_ a partner, we went to the only person who has worked with you long term. I have to say, for how dysfunctional the two of you were when you were split up, Friedlander here spoke very highly of your skills."

The younger agent turned to his former partner, giving him a slight nod of thanks.

"Let's get down to brass tacks. Hard numbers show your solve rate has doubled over the last nine months. Anecdotally, your supervisors have found you to be more ready and more focused on a consistent basis. Your reports have been thorough and complete and, of course, no disciplinary actions on your official record."

"You were on everyone's radar when you started with your high scores at Quantico. I was afraid for a while that you were going to wash out, be one of those agents who puts in only the bare minimum effort. I'm glad you've proven me wrong. You've done well with the small teams the last few months. You'll still need to report to me for the first six months, but we'll be assigning you a larger team and you'll be moving into the office at the end of the bullpen."

Booth's eyes brightened, waiting for the words.

"Congratulations Booth. You've earned this promotion."

With a silent exhale of relief, Booth finally allowed himself to smile. "Thank you, sir."

He reached across the desk to shake his boss's hand while his former partner offered, "Well done Seeley."

"Thanks Friedlander." He shook the other man's hand with genuine friendship. Once more professionally even, jealousy over their former rivalry disappeared, each knowing they would never have to report to the other.

"I'm waiting for some paperwork to be finalized through HR but we'll talk salary at the end of the week. Stop by Sarah's desk on your way out to get new business cards ordered," Cullen directed as he gathered files for his next meeting.

The two agents parted at the door and Booth dutifully gave Cullen's secretary the information needed for his new cards before sauntering back to his desk.

Grabbing his mug, he strolled to the break room for another cup of coffee, lest he fall asleep on the job again and get distracted by that kiss. How could he still be having such pleasant dreams about a woman who he wasn't sure he even liked? He needed to get her out of his head. _The dreams mean nothing. I just haven't had a date or a good kiss like that in too long, that's all._ If fate wasn't going to work with him in regards to her, he needed to stop fooling himself. Grateful Pops had been right about things turning up for him at work, he only hoped he was also right when it came to his personal life. He needed a woman's touch.

* * *

"Bren, do you want to grab some lunch?" Angela barged into her friend's office but stopped two steps in the door.

Dr. Temperance Brennan, renowned forensic anthropologist, respected professor and soon to be published fiction writer sat in her desk chair with her chin resting directly on her desk, eye to eye socket with two ancient, tanned skulls that seemed to stare back at her.

"Umm, what are you doing sweetie?" Angela found her legs and walked behind the skulls, trying ineffectually to pull Brennan's attention to herself.

"I am choosing which skull to bring with me to my photoshoot at noon – my publisher wants me holding a skull for the picture. While I believe it to be gimmicky, my publisher is calling it a visual hook, necessary to the promotion of my book."

"Make people take a second look," she sing-sang, continuing the rhyme.

Brennan looked perplexed at her friend, unsure what she was getting at but without any time to ask. "If you want to wait for a late lunch, I will be happy to grab something to go." She stood to pull her satchel out and chose the skull on the right to place in her bag. "Hopefully I will be back by one o' clock."

As the author walked by to exit her office, the artist quirked an eyebrow. She knew getting a professional picture taken for a book jacket was going to take more than just an hour. "That's alright. I'll see if Zach wants to go. We can try for tomorrow."

"I do not believe Mr. Addy wants to be disturbed. He is currently using skeletal remains from the bone room to aid his studying efforts for an upcoming paper. You could try Dr. Hodgins if you want company."

Angela contorted her face in distaste, complaining, "Jack doesn't talk about anything but dirt, bugs, government schemes and corporate conspiracies. I think I'll pass."

"Your other option is Dr. Goodman but he was supposed to be in meetings all day," Brennan suggested as they paused at the doors leading to the parking garage.

Her friend twisted her features into a skeptical, grimacing smile, telling Brennan, "I'll figure something out. Have fun at the shoot!" Giving one last small wave, she returned down the hall back towards her office.

Brennan made her way out to her old car, satisfied with the progress of her day so far. She had made a relatively quick identification of a set of remains from World War I that morning and just needed to send off a sample to genetic testing for confirmation before notifying living family members. As she drove out of the ramp, the anthropologist made a mental itinerary for the rest of her day. She hoped to return to the lab by one, in order to finish a report Dr. Goodman was requesting. Following that, there would be the report to write up on this morning's identification to send along for DNA confirmation and the remains to prepare for transport. Then, if there was time, she wanted to review notes for a lecture she was scheduled to give the following Thursday before she met Peter for a late dinner.

Five hours later, a disgruntled scientist gently set her skull back on her shelf before throwing her satchel harshly to the side.

"Not quite the quick in and out that you thought it would be, was it?" Angela simpered from the doorway, earning herself an angry schoolteacher glare from across the office. This only made her smile bigger and chuckle as she walked in and helped herself to a seat and asked, "So, besides taking ten times longer than you thought it would, how did it go?"

"It was fine," she answered tersely. Her entire body evinced tension as she grumbled, "It was just a waste of time when I still have so much to get done today." Flustered, Brennan shuffled papers on her desk and opened and slammed drawers shut looking for notes and files.

Knowing the afternoon had been more demanding on her nerves than the scientist had expected, Angela felt pity and tried calming her friend. "Bren, you're so flustered, just –." She put her hand on some papers Brennan was trying to move. "Give yourself _five_ minutes to breathe. Something is bothering you, more than just going over your expected time, to get you this worked up. Talk it through and clear your head. "

Brennan looked up doubtingly.

"Besides, you owe me for earlier – Jack cornered me into having lunch with him." Angela wrinkled her nose as she slouched back into the chair.

Resigning herself, Brennan took a cleansing breath and agreed, "Fine, five minutes."

"So tell me about it. I see they did your hair and make-up."

"Only concealer and lipstick." Brennan wiped at her cheek to see if she could get any of the paint off. Add one more thing to do tonight: it was going to take multiple washings to get her face clean of the gunk. "They wanted to outline my eyes but I refused to be made up to look like an Egyptian sarcophagus."

Angela chuckled. She could imagine Brennan's refusal as an outright battle if everyone else were even half as stubborn as her friend. "Good call. Your eyes are stunning all on their own. They did your hair nice at least," she offered trying to find something positive in what must have been a stressful experience to someone who didn't seem to like being touched.

"It looks nice because it doesn't move. There are so many chemicals holding it in place, it's going to take forever to get it all out." She closed her eyes, adjusting her mental itinerary some more. _Add one more thing to get done tonight unless I want to add washing the bedding to tomorrow's list._

Normally Brennan didn't care about this trivial stuff. Angela, wanting to get her out of this petty mood, tipped her head and mimicked her friend's voice saying to herself, "Thanks Angela, I'm happy with how my look turned out."

"Thank you Angela," a tired Brennan looked the artist in the eye with a small smile on her face.

Smirking at her easy success, she admired, "You really do look nice. I'm hoping they gave you something to cover that mustard stain though," pointing at a yellow spot planted directly over her breast.

Her head jerked down to see. "Must-," she bit her tongue to keep an expletive from spilling out. Pulling a detergent pen from her desk drawer to dab at the stain, she sighed in frustration before she continued, "No, they actually had a whole wardrobe picked out for me. I don't know what was wrong with my own clothes."

Angela pointed at the wetted yellow mark.

"The mustard was from the hot dog I grabbed from a vendor on my way back," she explained with a roll of her eyes.

"What did they put you in? Good stuff?"

Conceding, "If by 'good stuff' you mean designer clothing? Yes – just a jacket over a blouse. I could have done without their choice in jewelry though."

"What was wrong with it?"

Rolling her eyes, "They made me wear a cross necklace. They said it would make me appear more wholesome. I understand the anthropologic need for symbolism, but it's not a symbol significant to me!"

"You're atheist, right?"

The timbre of her voice rose as she quarreled against no one, "I do not believe in any mythical god character but they either wouldn't listen or didn't care about the truth. They only cared about what looked good."

"That's a publicist for you."

"I had to use their prop skull. They all looked at me horrified when I pulled my own out," she said, lowering her voice in shame.

Understanding dawned on the listener: she must be upset by the reactions she had elicited from the crew at the shoot.

"They said mine wasn't bleached enough. Apparently in today's culture a real skull is horrifying but a fake one is just fine," Brennan pouted as she faced the skulls on her shelf to admire the beauty in their age and authenticity.

"Well, I'm sure the end result will be beautiful, it has you in it," Angela smiled adoringly at her friend.

"You're already my best friend, you don't have to use flattery," Brennan returned with a shy smile.

"I'm your best friend?" she asked, surprised.

"Of course." As if there were any question about it. "You _were_ one of the first people I met after moving here, outside of work."

Confusion clouded her brown eyes as she processed what that meant. "You were here for a whole year before we met, sweetie."

"Yes, but I didn't know anyone when I moved here to take this job. I spent a significant portion of my first year here contracted out, working on a special assignment in and out of Cuba." For Brennan, it was all fact.

"You went to Cuba?" Angela's eyes brightened with curiosity. "I thought it was illegal to travel there."

"It was a special assignment. That's all I can say." She had probably said more than she should have already, but she trusted Angela. _I trust Angela. Trust. It's okay to trust friends_ , she reminded herself silently.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Brennan was slightly shocked her nosy friend didn't try even one question. "That's all?"

"I trust you'd tell me if you could, being your best friend and all," she teased.

She smiled a tired yet grateful smile across her desk. "Thank you, Angela. Now, in being my best friend, I have no scruples in telling you that five minutes is up. I have to get back to work." She was more relaxed after their chat, but her deadlines remained.

"Of course you do. I'm heading out so I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight." As soon as Angela was gone, Brennan dialed Peter's number to cancel dinner. It was going to be another late night at work.


	11. May 2005

**May 2005**

Sitting in the corner or a bar, his back to the wall, a window at his side, Seeley Booth had a unique vantage point where he could monitor the street and most of the bar while remaining half hidden behind a pillar, an excellent position to observe surreptitiously without being observed.

At the table with him was Special Agent Jeff Stone, an old friend in town visiting his family and old office after transferring to the Minneapolis field office two years earlier. Why he had thought he could handle the intemperate Midwest weather, Jeff laughed at his folly, eager to transfer back to headquarters.

Visiting some directors at the Hoover building, Stone had run into his former friend who was in the process of finding a file amongst the many boxes in his new office. This happy meeting led to an invitation for drinks at the end of the day, bringing them to Booth's favorite bar, seated across from one another reminiscing over their past and celebrating Booth's promotion to Supervisory Special Agent.

"I have to hand it to you, doubling your solve rate was impressive, but you know, now they'll expect you to keep up that pace!" Stone advised.

"I'll do one better. I'll double it again!" Booth laughed, clinking beer bottles with his companion.

Stone threw his head back with glee. "Ha! Now you're just being cocky! What will your girl say to your hours then?"

"Don't have one, don't need one," he answered smugly before taking a swig of his brew.

Stone sat back melodramatically, hand over his heart in jest, "Seeley Booth doesn't have a girl? Never thought I'd be more lucky in love that you."

Less than amused, he managed a smirk with a sarcastic "ha-ha" before defending himself. "I do just fine in the dating department, thank you very much."

The other man maintained his jovial demeanor, teasing, "So a player then. To each their own, if that's your style."

Once upon a time, Seeley Booth would have been proud of the title, but now he was in his mid-thirties. If he was serious about wanting to get married and have more kids someday, he couldn't just dick around – he had, in fact, become somewhat of a serial monogamist, constantly trying to find the family life he wanted. Playing the field, he had realized, only led further away from his dream. A little too defensively, he shot back, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Finally reading Booth through his slight buzz, Stone was quick to mollify, "Nothing wrong with dating around. I never pictured you as a relationship kind of guy anyway."

A slight awkward pause ensued while one agent looked out the window reminding himself that Jeff meant nothing by it while the other kicking himself for teasing the man about what was obviously a touchy subject. Changing the subject, Stone prodded congenially, "So what's next for the unstoppable Agent Booth?"

"I told you. Double my solve rate." Booth grinned cockily.

"Not possible, not without a partner at least." Stone shook his head with a worried smile, realizing his buddy was earnest about the goal.

He looked his friend in the eye as he answered in all seriousness, "Just watch my friend."

Stone leaned on his elbows, ready for friendly debate. "I don't think so, Booth. You're just one person, there's only so much you can do on your own. Now, if you were to work _with_ someone, it might actually be doable."

"I don't do that. It just ends up being a fight for control. We all want to be the one to crack the case, get all the accolades." Booth was resolute.

"No partner at work, no partner in life. Must be lonely." Stone took the last swallow from his bottle.

The agent in the corner grinned mischievously, countering, "I don't have time to be lonely. Too busy solving cases."

A shout of laughter broke out as Stone tipped his empty bottle in mock toast. "Boy, would you look at the ego on this one."

"Like you don't have your own," Booth taunted back, meeting the bottle in the air with his own.

Stone sighed, deep in thought. "I suppose we have to maintain decent egos to do what we do. Heaven knows Jenny complains about mine every time I come home celebrating a closed case."

Booth smiled, nodding in agreement and looked out to the street. Stone glanced at his watch at the thought of his wife at the same time Booth met the eyes of a familiar woman from his dreams standing on the sidewalk with a man's arm around her shoulder. Booth's smile faded as he subconsciously stopped breathing and she turned away.

Stone, oblivious to the silent exchange, slid his chair back with a loud scraping on the floor, jarring Booth's attention back to his old friend. "Speaking of Jenny, I suppose I should get back to her. I'm serious about the partner thing, Booth." He stood. "Find yourself a partner – someone who you need as much as they need you. You'll be better for it."

"Thanks for the advice. Have a goodnight."

Shaking hands, the one departed for his hotel while the other looked out the window again to see if he could see _her_. She had vanished and he debated within himself whether she had actually been there or if it had just been his wishful thinking.

Rubbing his face and taking one last look out the window, he decided it must have been a doppelganger. But those mesmerizing eyes were just too memorable. Relaxing in his seat, he focused on the rest of his drink and took in the bar scene, trying to distract himself from thoughts of _her_. If he were being completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was hoping to see her in the bar, even if she was on a date, just so he could show her what she was missing.

Instead, nothing but an average Friday night was all that played in front of him.

Groups of friends gathered at tables, "So I told Greg…"

Business deals were being made at the high tops at the far end, "…transfer pricing studies will protect you from…"

Patrons lined the stools next to the bar, "Could I get some wings here?"

Others stood in clumps waiting for a seat, "…if we hurry."

Everyone was with someone else and, unfortunately for Booth, not one of the groups included anyone he recognized. Without an option to join anyone or grab a seat at the bar, he stood to clear space for another crowd.

Shuffling his way towards the exit, he couldn't help but hear snippets of an annoyed woman.

"Thanks but no thanks. I'm here for a girl's night."

Booth rolled his eyes at the poor guy who didn't know how to pick-up women at a bar. _Always wait for a group of three!_

His progress was slowed by a party making a rush for his deserted table when he heard her voice again, more agitated. "I'm not going to say it again. I'm not interested."

Booth began looking around for where the voice was coming from. He spotted her sitting at a table ten feet away, a man leering over her, both of their backs to him as she raised her voice once more, "Please go away."

Obviously this guy needed a better hint. Readying his badge, he made his way to her side. In one fluid motion, he discretely tapped her shoulder, flashed her his badge and greeted her, "Hey babe, sorry it took me so long."

Seeing the badge had given her a sense of security but as she craned her neck to look up at the agent, she broke out in a grin, instantly recognizing his ploy, and far from disappointed that the cop coming to her rescue was so hot.

The other man looked back and forth with confusion between their faces as Booth hovered to his side, leaning on the woman's chair.

When he made no motion to leave, Booth chided, "I believe you're in my way."

He opened and closed his mouth twice before thinking the better of it and skulked off to the other end of the bar complaining to himself, "she could have just said no," as Booth made a show of taking the seat to make sure he stayed away.

As soon as he was out of earshot, the blond woman sighed a heartfelt, "Thank you."

"No problem. He should leave you alone now," Booth smiled, noticing for the first time how attractive she was. Seeing behind her head that the persistent man's attention had been claimed by the dartboards, he moved to leave.

"Enjoy your ladies night. I'll stick over by the bar in case he bothers you again. Seeley Booth, by the way." He reached to shake hands.

She held onto his hand preventing his departure. "Tessa Jankow. Would you like to join us? I'm sure my friends won't mind."

"Sure," his charm smile attached itself to his face, "unless you actually do have a boyfriend. I wouldn't want to get my hopes up."

He was rewarded with a giggle, a blush, a smile and a "no boyfriend" reply as she ran her fingers through her hair.

Tessa's girlfriends arrived but stayed only one drink. Significant looks from the woman and continued smiles from the man to their friend was enough hint for them to take an early leave.

The remaining two stayed until the bar was half empty. He walked her to her cab and was compensated with her phone number and a sweet kiss. He ignored her hints that he should join her – _If I'm going to make a relationship work, I am not starting it by sleeping with her_ – but he did call her before her taxi was out of sight.

"Just making sure you didn't give me a fake number." He smiled into the phone sensing her smile on the other end, talking to her all the way until she said she had reached home.

He collapsed into bed that night with a smile on his face. _Wow. Smart and beautiful. And she's into me._

* * *

"Hey there Temperance, you ready to go?" Peter entered his girlfriend's office and moved behind her to place a kiss on her neck.

"Just… a… second…" her words drawn out, she put a hand up effectively giving him the brushoff while she remained distracted by the chemical analysis reports on her screen.

He should have known by now to not even try to interrupt her when she was focused so wholeheartedly on work, so aggravated, he sat on her couch, waiting impatiently, checking his watch and letting out a not so subtle sigh every couple minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, Brennan closed the program, organized the few papers on her desk and stood, asking Peter abruptly, "Are you ready?"

Tonight was supposed to be about having fun, letting loose and celebrating. He bit his tongue and squashed his desire to argue with her implication that it was his fault they were going to be late, instead asking, "Isn't Angela coming with us?"

"She left at five. I wanted to finish looking over some reports for tomorrow morning."

"Tempe, tomorrow is Saturday," he whined as they walked down the hall. "Can't you take a normal weekend off? Like a normal person?"

She bristled internally at his remark. "Yes, I have a body that needs to be identified."

"Oh come on. You have hundreds of bodies that need to be identified and they've been dead over fifty years. Waiting a few more days won't hurt."

"Which is why I need to remain diligent in continuing the identification process. Their families have waited long enough. It's not like we had plans for this weekend anyway."

It was true and he knew it would be a fruitless endeavor to argue with her logic. He just wanted a lazy day in bed with her. A lazy day where they could have some _real_ conversation. And maybe a little fun, too. He exhaled loudly and slung his arm around her shoulders, admitting defeat as they exited the museum and began their walk to the appointed bar where they would meet up with Angela and her guy-of-the-month date.

The rest of the walk was more peaceful. Peter asking questions about her work, she answering succinctly with the facts about the bones and reports, pleasant enough together bringing them back to tolerably amiable moods. When that conversation died, they lapsed into comments on the nice weather to avoid any more fights. Conversation grew to a lull and Brennan's trapezius was aching from the weight of his arm by the time they saw Angela waving down the street: she ignored the discomfort.

"Hey Sweetie! Hi Pete. This is Brad." Angela was quick to make introductions, excited to have convinced her best friend to go out for an evening. "I'm glad we waited outside for you. It's an absolute madhouse in there, we never would have found each other."

Brennan rotated her body and peered in the windows to confirm Angela's claim and found herself suddenly staring in the chocolatey eyes of a man who haunted her dreams and whose calls she had been avoiding. Stomach twisting, she swiveled to face their small party, tight lipped and suggested, "Let's go someplace else," a little too forcefully.

"What? Why?" Peter gave up on being agreeable, "It's not that crowded!"

Angela, noticing Brennan's severe reaction to seeing inside, looked inside herself and immediately noticed a certain FBI agent staring at her friend. Coming to her rescue, she chimed in, "Bren's right. There's another good bar three blocks that way," she pointed the direction the other two had just walked from. "Maybe it won't be as crowded."

Brennan shook Peter's arm from her shoulders and the ladies led the way, leaving a trail of complaints from the men in their wake.

Walking alongside her friend, Angela tried to pacify her date, calling behind her with a wink, "Just go with it Brad. I'll make it up to you tonight."

Brad followed her advice and Peter's complaints were listened to only by the wind.

Brennan's stomach remained firmly knotted as they trekked across and down the street to the other bar. She secluded herself in her own thoughts until she couldn't stand the whining anymore. "Peter!" paired with a steely glare shut him up at last. They walked the last block in silence, arriving at last at a bar more crowded than the first.

"Should've stayed at the last place," was mumbled, smartly enough, to himself.

Sensing the tension, Angela smiled broadly and suggested to the men, "Why don't you two go get us drinks while we stake out a table?"

Brad kissed her cheek as he passed her, readily complying. Peter scowled like a petulant child, trailing behind the other man, annoyed at the entire evening.

The ladies inched along the wall of the room in search of seating for four.

Spotting a table to young business men with empty glasses and beer bottles, Angela abandoned Brennan to catwalk in, using her charms on the group, somehow convincing them to give her their table. The scientist observed from the sidelines, fascinated at her friend's charm and sway.

Not bothering to wait for the table to be cleared once the men left, Brennan swooped in invade the table with Angela, earning themselves some nasty looks and comments from other patrons who had been waiting for much longer.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Angela shot back at one particularly foul remark. Flipping a switch, she turned to her friend for some girl talk. "Okay honey, _what_ was that all about at the last place?"

"I don't know what you mean"

"It's just that, in all the time I've known you, you've never seemed like the type of person to avoid conflict."

Brennan inspected her nails but did not answer.

"It's been almost a year since that Booth guy grabbed your arm. I think it's time to let it go." Angela's face held conviction and compassion.

"Not even a year," Brennan retorted, "And then eleven weeks ago, he manipulated me into analyzing those x-rays for the other case. He's still a jackass."

Angela looked at her disbelievingly, "I'm just saying, maybe it's time to give the guy another chance. Besides, Booth is _way_ too hot to…"

"Sorry for the delay. It was a mob scene at the bar." Brad broke in apologizing, returning with Peter, beers in hand.

Never letting on that they were discussing another man, Angela kissed Brad's cheek smoothly and grabbed her drink. She raised her bottle, cleared her throat and announced, "I'd like to propose a toast!"

When she had all three bodies at attention, she continued, "A toast to my best friend who excels at _everything_ she does."

Peter rolled his eyes, but forced a smile. He would be happy for his girlfriend tonight. It was _her_ night.

"Here's to your book being released next week," she continued smiling, "so I can _finally_ read the rest of it. I wish it immensely successful so you make boatloads of money and you can take me shopping."

Brennan smirked, Angela giggled and the men smiled while Brennan admonished, "Angela!"

"To you and your brilliant brain!" Angela finished her toast. With a chorus of 'cheers' and many clinks of bottles, they drank to her future fame and fortune.

Peter was the first to tap out, dropping hints for a solid twenty minutes that he wanted Brennan to come home with him to continue their own personal celebration. She managed to feign ignorance to his insinuations until, unsuccessful in his pursuit, he left in a cab alone.

The other three stayed only a short time after that. Brad, being a gentleman, left the ladies outside the entrance of the bar while he went to find a taxi allowing Angela to question her friend in private.

"Are you and Peter doing okay?" she asked pointedly.

"Why wouldn't we be?" Brennan looked up and down the street for Brad or a cab.

"Not sure if you noticed, but you two have been bickering all night – and not in a flirty way either. You're acting like you want to break up with him is all. I mean, you didn't even go home with him."

"We're fine, Angela. I'm just not in the mood for sex tonight."

"Is that what it's all about? Sex? Good sex is important, but there has to be something else if you're going to call it a relationship, sweetie. Otherwise it's just sex."

Brennan narrowed her eyes, studying her friend as if she were bones on a table, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

Angela put her hands up in surrender, uncomfortable under the scrutinizing eye. "No judgement on my part! You know I love a good fling. But if that's all you're looking for, just make sure Pete knows you're not in for the whole emotional support thing."

"Peter knows what I need out of this relationship."

"If you say so. I just know you have a hard time sharing yourself with people."

Brennan opened her mouth to retort but Angela cut her off, "More than sexually."


	12. June 2005

I am so close to finishing. As soon as I'm satisfied, the last few will go up much quicker. I'll be honest, if they had been posted as they were written, this wouldn't have been updated for over a month. I want to end it respectably. Until then, here is June.

* * *

 **June 2005**

Most agents of the fourth floor in the J. Edgar Hoover building preferred the change when the bureau reorganized offices, moving one U.S. attorney's satellite office to another floor, making room for the newly promoted Seeley Booth. He could be gruff and intimidating at times, but he was one of them and mostly kept to himself. She, on the other hand, had a way of making them feel incompetent, no matter how many answers they _did_ have. Since her move out, she had been nothing more than a memory to the inhabitants of the criminal investigative division in D.C.

That all changed when the ominous footsteps of a certain federal prosecutor ambled her way down the hall making many an FBI agent scurry the opposite direction or bury their head in paperwork. No one needed to hide. Caroline Julian was on a mission and no one could have stopped her if they had wanted to.

She stepped through the glass door to an office filled with boxes and papers stacked everywhere; only the backside of the lone occupant visible sticking up behind the sturdy desk. "I'd say my office looks good on you Booth but this isn't an office, it's a disaster zone."

Booth's head popped up from under his desk at the sound of her voice. "Hey, hey!" He stood, grinning broadly and spreading his arms wide, proud of his new digs. "What do you think?"

"Do you not understand the term 'disaster zone'? It looks like FEMA took charge in here." Caroline stepped into the room, navigating carefully around stacks of sports gear, piles of reports, and spare furniture haphazardly scattered.

"Yeah, well." His hands found his hips. "I haven't spent a lot of time here lately." He looked around his immediate space and moved a box of art from the floor to his already crowded desk, quickly pulling out numerous pictures.

"And where exactly have you been? Timbuktu?" Caroline wiped a layer of dust off a side cabinet and looked at it with disgust, rubbing it between two fingers to get it off.

The smile never left his face as he lifted an eagle statue from a box to put on the back cabinet. "I actually just got back yesterday from a weeklong undercover assignment in Tennessee."

"And here I thought you just weren't taking my calls. You might want to dust that." She smirked at her favorite agent. As long as she had no problems on cases with him, she liked seeing him happy and carefree like this.

"I always take _your_ calls." Booth waggled his eyebrows in her direction as he turned to quickly wipe the eagle's head and wings with the palm of his hand.

"You get your man?"

"Of course. I always do." He puffed his chest a bit as he broke down the box on his desk, then slid it off to the side.

One hand sat jauntily on her waist while her hand holding a stack of bound papers relaxed at her side. "I know you've been in here more than a week. What's your excuse for before you were out catching the bad guys?"

Booth ducked back under his desk to finish plugging his computer and monitor in. "This and that. Cases, you know. Can't shirk duty just to set up my office," his voice came muffled from under the heavy piece of furniture.

"You mean to tell me you didn't have _any_ spare time in the last month to make your office presentable?" Caroline moved closer to the desk, stealing a piece of candy from the jar next to his computer. She had always had an affinity for the man, but times like these, harping on him over the little things, made her feel more like a mother than a friend. She braced herself for his excuses, worried knowing that the last time she had seen him this happy and carefree was after a big win in his gambling days.

"I'm a busy guy Caroline, what can I say?" His head popped up again. "I'm only cleaning up now because Cullen doesn't want to see this mess anymore. That's the problem with glass doors around here. No privacy." For the first time since she had entered the room, traces of his smile were gone as he motioned out the windows toward his boss's office, tight-lipped, annoyed that he wasn't allowed to work until it was cleaned up. He grumbled lowly to himself, "We can't move our own boxes in because of union rules but then we have to unpack everything ourselves? Doesn't make sense to me."

"I'd say the last time you were this busy, you were getting yourself into trouble."

A dreamy expression crossed his face as he teased, "Well, I don't know if _she's_ trouble…"

"Seeley Booth! You met a girl?" She let a smile reach her eyes, but not her lips. This was good news. If Booth wasn't serious about a woman, he didn't bring her up. He hadn't told her about anyone in his life since Rebecca.

"Yeah, she's a lawyer…" His smile reached as wide as it could.

"I don't need details." Caroline held her free hand up to stop him from gushing. "Nothing worse than a puppy in love." She tried to give him a look of revolt, but only managed a half smirk with knowing eyes.

At the mention of 'love', the smile lessened in intensity as he stammered, "Who said anything about love now, Caroline? I mean, we just met. We're just seeing where it's going right now is all."

"Mm-hmm."

"So what can I help you with? I'm assuming you didn't come all the way here just to look at your old office." He set another box on his desk chair and began emptying law books, legal code and other reference materials from the cardboard confines onto his back cabinet.

"You're right. I brought a present for you, cher." She let a book drop to his desk with a loud thud. "Not to keep, mind you, I want it back when you're done."

His eyes flicked from the book to Caroline's face. "Thanks, though… I'm not really a novel reading kind of guy if it's all the same."

"Believe me, this one you'll want to read." _She_ would certainly want to know if someone had written about _her_ , even under a pseudonym.

"And why is that?"

"Just trust me." She sidestepped a chair to begin her trek back to the door when an excited "Ooooh!" grabbed her attention making her turn to face the man once more.

"I was wondering where you went!" Like a dog finding his favorite chew toy, Booth was holding his magic eight ball reverently at eye level.

 _This man is more like a child than a Special Agent some days._ Caroline shook her head at his ridiculousness."I hope you don't use that thing to make any important decisions about your cases."

He shook the ball and playfully read the triangle answer in the window. "Signs point to yes." He shot the prosecutor his charm smile and a wink, setting the toy on his desk.

"I did not just hear that," Caroline tried without success to remain serious. "Let me know when you're done with the book. I have a meeting with Cullen I have to get to."

She chuckled as she exited his office. It was good to see him in good spirits and staying the course. He would do great things as long as he continued the way he had been.

Booth smiled and waved good-bye and promptly moved all the books, including the gift on his desk to the back filing cabinet out of the way, never giving it a second thought. He had an office to organize if he wanted to get out of the office in time for his date with Tessa tonight.

* * *

Brennan closed her apartment door and went immediately to her refrigerator for a beer then made a beeline for the couch without really seeing where she was going. She let out a sigh and allowed her eyelids to close, though it didn't stop the images of such small bones from projecting in her mind. Infant remains were the hardest. Anthropologically, it was written into all human DNA to protect the newest of the species. Apparently _not_ all. How anyone could harm a defenseless child, it made her blood boil just to think of it.

"You okay?" Pete's voice from the hallway stole into her reverie.

"Just a hard case today." Without opening her eyes, she took a swallow from her bottle.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked out of habit, more than any expectation of a response.

Steadily, she responded, "No." What was there to talk about? Death was a natural part of life. There was no logic in talking over something that was done and had nothing to do with him. Talking about it would only bring pain to her heart, it was easier not to shut it all out. She could handle the anger.

"Of course you don't." Peter spoke bitterly to himself, leaning against the doorjamb, hands shoved deep into his jeans pockets.

Hearing him speak so cynically made Brennan turn her head as her eyes darted open to see the man she spent most nights with standing in the entrance to the room. "Why can't you just accept that I don't want to talk about it?"

Peter crossed his arms across his chest. "Why not?" He knew he shouldn't push, but he did anyway.

"Because it has nothing to do with anything here." Her tone spoke finality. She closed her eyes once more, as if doing so would make everything and everyone disappear.

"Oh, because your bitchy moods when you come home are nothing here. If you're going to crab at me when you come home, I at least deserve to know why I'm taking the brunt end of things." The decibel level in the room climbed.

She jumped from the couch to face him, matching him in decibel and posture. "This has nothing to do with you."

"It _does_ when you take your shitty moods out on me!"

She brusquely brushed past him, storming to the kitchen. "I don't know what you want from me."

He followed to stand in the kitchen doorway. "I want you to be open with me!" His words were pleading, but the anger in his speech said differently.

She _had_ shared more with Pete than with most men she had dated. She had told him more about her humanitarian work, digging in mass graves, surrounded by armed guards, than she shared with her past flings. She had even let him keep some clothes and other personal things in her bedroom and around her apartment. The most any other man had gotten was a corner to stash a duffel bag. Now he had the gall to complain? _What an asshole!_ Her jaw tensed briefly before defending herself, "I have opened up as much as I am capable!" She stuck her jaw in the air, defiant. "If that isn't enough for you…"

"The only thing you've opened up are your legs," Peter sneered, irritated by her tone and defensiveness.

If he had been standing close enough, he would have quickly been laid out on the floor. As it was, her eyes squinted, her jaw tensed and her nostrils flared, but she stayed rooted in place as she growled at him across the room, "Get out!"

"Great. This again?" His tenor more restrained, Peter had been through this drill too many times. "You know, you're just going to call me back in five minutes for angry sex. I'm sick of the yo-yoing. I'll just wait in the bedroom until you're ready." He turned to walk down the hall but her words stopped him mid-step.

"No. I'm done. Get out." She spoke dangerously low. "Now."

The words took a few seconds to register before he could respond, "Are you serious?"

When she didn't respond, he squawked, "After all the crap I've put up with from you?" Peter took a step closer, puffing out his chest, tempting fate in her ire.

It got dirty fast. Every past grievance was re-aired. Every petty disagreement exaggerated into a blow-out fight. Past mistakes were thrown in each other's faces. Neither one had any thought for her poor neighbors who had no choice but to hear every word shouted back and forth.

Finally, logic and rational surpassed her anger at the man in front of her. He voice modulated to normal levels to spit out, "I don't know why I ever tried to pretend I cared!"

"You're a cold fish! That's why!"

The words slapped her across the face, stunning her silent for a moment. She stomped across the kitchen to retrieve a garbage bag from under the sink and threw it at him, slamming the cabinet door shut. "Get your _stuff_ ," she spat, "and get out of my apartment."

"Or what? You'll call the cops?" Peter challenged her.

She was actually surprised her neighbors never had called the police to report their domestic disturbances. At least this would be the last time. Brennan held herself as tall as she could to shout back, "I know quite a few FBI agents through my connections at the Jeffersonian; however, I don't need any gun and badge to throw your shit out the window myself!"

A silent staring competition broke the noise. They simply stood across from each other, listening to the angry breath of the other.

Finally Peter spoke quietly. "Give me ten minutes."

"Fine."

He was out in seven. She slammed the door behind him and aggressively dead-bolted it shut. She grabbed another garbage bag and began a sweep of the apartment to search for anything he might have forgotten.

She was irrationally angry at him for making her break things off. She hadn't loved him, wasn't even sure she had even liked him outside the bedroom at that point. The original sensations caused by the norepinephrine and dopamine being released in her brain had long ago worn off. All she had gotten in the end was a broken door and an empty drawer. And it wasn't like she had never been alone before. _I don't need him or anyone else. I am responsible for myself and myself only._

She walked her apartment, convincing herself that she was better off on her own, picking up the things he had missed: two pairs of slip-on shoes from the closet ( _the idiot never could tie his shoes_ ), a box of nasal strips from the bedside table ( _so glad I don't have to hear him snore anymore_ ), and an old television set ( _well that won't fit in the bag_ ).

 _Good riddance. There are plenty of other men who can satisfy my biological urges. Perhaps not as well, but… If there is no acceptable specimen, even_ _that_ _can be accomplished by an apparatus._

Another idea suddenly assaulted her thoughts: what was Angela going to say? Brennan did not need the interrogation nor want to hear the 'I told you so' certain to fall from her best friend's lips.

It didn't take long for her internal dialogue to nag her into a foul mood. She needed a project. Something to distract her around the clock. Somewhere with no one she knew asking questions she had no interest in answering.

A split second decision was made and she was on the phone with her Dean at American University. "Dr. Moore, this is Dr. Brennan. I have decided to join the humanitarian trip to Guatemala next month."


	13. July 2005

Disclaimer: The opinions expressed by characters do not represent those of the author and are intended for entertainment purposes only. :)

 **July 2005**

Late Friday afternoon meetings were not Caroline Julian's idea of a great way to end the week, but if she was going to have to haul over to the Hoover building, at least she could retrieve the book she had loaned Agent Booth the month prior.

Or so she thought.

"What do you mean you haven't read it yet? I gave that book to you weeks ago." Caroline was irrationally miffed that he hadn't so much as thumbed through a few pages or even read the teaser on the inside jacket panel.

"And I told you then, I'm not a novel kind of guy. I'm sorry Caroline." Spinning in his chair, he pulled the book from a stack of reference materials on his back cabinet and handed it to the prosecutor.

Her outstretched hand accepted the package but her arm didn't retract as she scolded him, "Did you even look at it? Happen to notice who the author is?"

"What would the author have to do with anything?" Booth continued to go through his e-mails.

"Some investigator you are." Caroline sassed with a pursed smirk. "Look here," she pointed to the bottom line on the cover, finally gaining his notice. "By Dr. Temperance Brennan. That _was_ the name of that pretty bone lady who helped on that case last summer, wasn't it?"

"Uh huh." He eyed her wearily as he took back the book, resigned, curiosity winning out.

"There's a handsome FBI agent in the book," she teased with a sparkle in her eye. "Just r _ead_ it."

That secured his full attention.

This time he kept the book on his desk, peering at it suspiciously from time to time for the remainder of the day. For a reason only his gut understood, he couldn't let it out of his sight now, even bringing it in to Wong Foo's for a late solitary dinner at Wong Foo's. He set the book on the counter next to him, promising himself he would only read the jacket. He refused to look the part of a lonely loser reading alone at a restaurant. His resolve persevered only until his meal was served.

Booth was getting into the third chapter when he noticed his bill sitting where he had last seen his empty plate. He decided finish just this last part before heading home for the night. He braced the book between the counter and his elbow as he reached with his other hand to his back pocket for his wallet as he continued reading, 'The first thing I noticed when he entered the room were his shiny shoes. Before he crossed my office, I had already noticed the breadth of his shoulders and strong jaw line. I looked up to the warm brown eyes and felt myself drawn in, completely attracted to the symmetry of his features…'

His eyes bugged, seeing himself instantly in the fictional FBI agent. He lost grip on everything, sending the novel and his wallet juggling. _Sweet mother of…_

 _Okay, okay, calm down. They say, write what you know. It isn't me, dummy. Caroline planted the idea. But the physical description? The shoes?!_ Reasonable doubt be damned, he was already convinced he was the inspiration.

He continued reading on, delving into Kathy's internalized desire to push her fictional FBI partner up against a wall. _This is so hot. Scratch that, SHE is so hot. If I could take Bones up against a wall… Bad Seeley, you can't think of sex with another woman when you have a girlfriend! Tessa's smart and beautiful, too. Good thing she had the business dinner tonight. She CANNOT know this Andy character is based on me. Is he based on me? No wonder Caroline was so adamant I read this. He HAS to be based on me._

A dark thought suddenly intruded, sobering his mind. _I bet she did this just so she could kill me off in her fantasies. That has to be it._

Further down the bar, cleaning glasses, Sid had been watching Booth. He had never seen him read anything more than a case file and the man had never let his bill sit untouched as long as he had tonight. The sudden fumble and subsequent staring into nothingness did zero to assuage the picture of a man unsettled.

Normally one to leave his customers alone, the agent's out of place behavior compelled him to intrude. "Hey, good book?"

"What? Oh, yeah." Booth's surprise at hearing someone address him was short lived and he blinked rapidly to rewet his eyes which had been staring into space for too long.

"Not like you to read a book here." Now Sid was just being nosy.

"Someone at work told me to read it." He stood the book vertically on the bar, studying her name on the cover and wondering how he had missed the large print earlier. "I've worked with the author a couple times," he added by way of explanation.

Sid tipped his head as he checked out the picture on the backside. "She looks boring."

Booth's eyebrows shot up in disbelief that anyone could find her less than beautiful. Recovering to play it cool, he scratched under his chin and remarked nonchalantly, "The picture doesn't really do her justice."

The barman looked him over suspiciously giving Booth time to pull cash out of his wallet and attach it to his bill.

"Tell you what," Booth suggested as he stood. "If I ever get the chance to introduce you, you can tell me what you think."

Smiling affably, he sauntered out with 'Bred to the Bone' tucked safely under his arm.

Once home, he tossed it on his bed as he went about his nightly routine. _Just a few chapters before bed,_ he promised himself. _Until I'm too tired._

Twilight was peeking through the bedroom window by the time the pages of the last chapter closed, leaving a man sitting in bed, jaw slack with unseeing, wandering eyes.

 _Oh shit._ His gut, brain and heart battled for dominance. _If I didn't know better, I would guess she fantasizes about me. But that's impossible. She'll barely speak to me! Why on God's good earth would she write THAT about ME? Okay not me, the character. But Andy HAS to be based on me! This is not fair of her to get me this hot for her when she won't see me. I really need to apologize or something so she'll talk to me again. Damn, now I'm going to fantasize about her! And about more than just that kiss!_

 _Seriously Seeley!_ He mentally kicked himself and gently pounded the hard cover against his forehead. _You have a smart, successful girlfriend already! Tessa's hot… though so is Bones. And apparently she wants me. No. If she wanted me, she would take my cases. Wouldn't she? I could get lost in those gorgeous eyes of hers. I really wish this picture was in color. Still wouldn't do her justice._

It was no use. His train of thought kept returning to the anthropologist, no matter how many times he consciously refocused on Tessa.

Sleep never came. Tessa found Booth sitting in his kitchen later that morning working on his second cup of coffee, studying the jacket cover and still contemplating the various ideas that had kept him up the remainder of the night.

A kiss to the cheek startled him out of his daze. He greeted her with a tired smile and a slow blink.

"You look like you've been up all night," she fretted as she pulled herself a mug from his cabinets and helped herself to coffee.

"I was. I couldn't stop reading." He rubbed his hands over his face, dumbfounded at himself and a little embarrassed for being kept up by a book, of all things.

Tessa sat next to her boyfriend and peeked over his arms to take a look at the cover. "I never had you pegged as a novel reader. You liked the book?"

"Actually, yeah." He handed the book over so she could see it better. "Murder mystery. It's a forensic anthropologist and her FBI partner solving a homicide using her science and his instinct. Really, really realistic. I don't normally read novels but," he interrupted himself with a yawn, "Caroline, you know that attorney I told you about, she forced it on me 'cuz I worked with the author once."

"Yeah, I read it, too. You know the author?" Her interest piqued. Maybe Seeley could introduce her to this Dr. Brennan.

He bobbled his head indecisively. "Maybe, sort of."

Tessa's eyebrow quirked. "Why the hesitation? You do or you don't." She laughed at the half-asleep man beside her. Giving him a pass for his sleep deprivation, she turned the book over and mischievously asked a question no man wants to be asked. "Is she as good looking as her picture?"

Booth turned the book over to see her beautiful face. "She's alright I guess." He downplayed for his girlfriend's ego. "She _is_ the smartest person I have ever worked with though. You are smart, I get by," he teased shooting her his charm smile, "but she is a certified genius. _Three_ doctorates. Our first case, she found and identified a miniscule bone from the victim's ear at barely a glance. Knew right where to look for the evidence based on the victim's injuries. Typical squint, but she's the best in her field."

"Impressive." The admiration in her voice was genuine.

He had to stop talking about her before Tessa began to think there was something else there. Ending the conversation on a professional note, Booth stretched high and remarked, "She really was. She has been beneficial to my career. If I could work with her every day, I would." He leaned over to give her a peck. "I'm going to hop in the shower." _A cold shower._

It took exactly the length of one cold shower to decide to make amends with Bones. It took another week to draft the perfect e-mail and an additional day to settle on the subject line. Deciding on concise and professional, he finally hit send on the 'FBI Interview' email.

* * *

"Very good Mr. Addy." Brennan looked up from the three reports lain open on her desk to the uncertain face of her protégé sitting before her. "I concur with your conclusion that these remains are, in fact, those of the missing Carly sisters."

"Shall I find cause of death next?" He enjoyed the challenge that came with hyper-analyzing every anomaly.

Her gaze flicked up briefly as she signed off on each identification, unhesitatingly replying, "Not today. The execution style gunshot wounds were obvious enough even for the FBI lab. Please ready the remains for transport back to their facilities."

"Yes Dr. Brennan."

Brennan switched gears immediately upon his exit, opening her e-mail. Sighing in defeat, she began sorting the multitudes of messages.

Her publisher, originally irked at her upcoming two month disappearance, had turned the news to their favor, issuing press releases highlighting Brennan's authenticity as a scientist and anthropologist who did humanitarian work identifying victims of genocide, just like her character Kathy. This had caused exactly what the publisher had hoped for, increasing sales for 'Bred in the Bone' so-much-so that it had made its way onto the best seller's list. Since then, she had been pressed upon with hordes of requests for last minute interviews from morning news stations, radio shows and even magazines.

Every email was the same. Would she be available to meet in person? If not, could she at least answer some questions for them? And the questions never deviated either. Was the crime in the book based on an actual case? Why did she decide to write a book? Where did her inspiration come from? Who were her favorite authors? And her least favorite, who was her inspiration for the delectable Agent Andy Lister?

She massaged her hands along the sides of her face and decided the most efficient method for eliminating what she deemed to be junk, was to sort out the emails ending in dot-gov or from within the Jeffersonian and delete the rest. University and dig related emails typically went through her dot-edu account and if anything else important was accidentally included in the purge, they would have to email again. Her next step was setting up a filter so that any message including the term 'interview' would automatically be sent to her trash. At least she wouldn't have to sort through as much of that particular type of garbage when she returned.

A soft knock accompanied by "Hey sweetie," made Brennan look up at the clock.

"I'll be ready to go in just a minute Ange." She finished a quick sweep through the remaining emails and shut down her computer.

"No rush on my part. It's really cool what you're doing, but I'm going to miss having my best friend around," Angela teased pouting her lower lip. Brennan had withdrawn since the whole Pete fiasco and her friend silently agreed she needed some time away to clear her thoughts. And if she needed to be surrounded by hot, sweaty, sexy men while she did it, so be it.

"I just need to drop this paperwork off with Dr. Goodman on our way out." Brennan waved something in the air as she grabbed her satchel. Together they walked upstairs to their boss's office.

The scientist breezed into his office without knocking. Already facing the direction of his door, the archaeologist greeted the women with a stern, "Dr. Brennan," and a friendlier, "Ms. Montenegro."

"Here is the leave of absence paperwork you required Dr. Goodman." She handed him the form.

He gave it a cursory glance and signed his approval at the bottom while he scolded, "The next time you decide to go on a non-Jeffersonian sponsored expedition, I would appreciate a little more than a two-day notice." He did his best to appear authoritarian. He knew the museum's board would have his head if he lost the best forensic anthropologist in the country, leaving him little option but to approve the short term notice.

Angela puckered her lips, astonished at Brennan's lack of communication. She had been preparing the rest of them on the team over the past three _weeks_.

Unfortunately for Dr. Goodman, Dr. Temperance Brennan knew well enough of her importance at the Jeffersonian to strongly suspect she wouldn't be fired, and little enough of social niceties to not realize the level of rudeness she had committed in not alerting her boss. Fore Brennan, it really had to do with nothing more than her aversion to bureaucratic red tape and what she deemed to be unnecessary form-filling that prevented her from making the communication until she absolutely had to.

Uncertain as to what to say, Brennan said nothing in response and retreated out with Angela following behind.

Retracing their steps back around by the platform to trek to the parking garage, Brennan's attention was distracted by the sight of two empty examination tables with government issued coffins resting beside them. Zach was working to finish filling another coffin from a third examination table.

"One more minute, Angela," Brennan excused herself and swiped her keycard to gain access to the elevated workstation. Angela waited patiently below while the scientist gently rested a hand on each of the first two makeshift caskets, examining their contents one last time.

Zach paused in his work, noticing her appearance of reflection over the remains. Angela looked on curiously.

Realizing she was being watched by the others, she disguised her sign of respect for the dead with a reminder to her intern. "Mr. Addy, when you deliver the reports, be certain to remind them that we will be unavailable to assist them until the second week in September." She began towards the exit but spun on her heel to add, "If Agent Booth calls, don't give him _any_ information."

Both listeners' brows furrowed. One at her use of the term 'we' and the other at the mention of a specific agent.

" _I_ will still be available," Zach insisted. "You said yourself that my work is 'very good'. I could still help them."

"No, Zach," she corrected. "While your work has been adequate, I have always been here to answer your questions and make the final determination. You may be physically here in the lab, but I will be in a remote region of Guatemala with inconsistent communications at best. Until you receive your doctorate, I am not comfortable signing off on your work without seeing it with my own eyes first. I will see you in two months."

"Yes Dr. Brennan. Have a good trip." Her intern returned to his task at hand, disheartened, but recognizing the logic behind her decision. The last month's exercises, assisting in the identification of homicide victims had expanded his knowledgebase considerably and it was a frustration to forego the opportunity for the next two months. Now, after he took his vacation time while she was gone, it would be nothing but bone room remains for the next six weeks. Victims who had been discovered but not yet found. At least he could help some of them get out of the limbo they were in.

Brennan bounced down the stairs almost exhibiting excitement. "There. _Now_ you may take me to the airport."

Angela chuckled at the permission given.

As they made their way to the parking garage in comfortable silence, Angela couldn't ignore the question gnawing at her since Brennan's remark back in the lab. "Why did you mention Booth sweetie? He hasn't called for you in months."

"Exactly. The longest he has gone without calling is six weeks and four days," Brennan answered without a thought as they reached Angela's car.

The artist's mouth formed a silent O and her eyebrows raised. "That was just a little specific."

"Given his history of persistence, the statistical likelihood of him calling in the near future increases with each passing day," she stated objectively.

"Uh-huh." Angela had no qualms admitting she wasn't as smart as the rest of the forensic team at the Jeffersonian, but her intuition was beginning to pick up that perhaps Brennan wasn't _just_ running away from the whole Pete breakup thing. And now she had two months to mull it over.


	14. August 2005

**August 2005**

Over the course of summer, Booth settled into his new role as a Supervisory Special Agent.

His first few cases had been basic. In fact, the first case was so straightforward, the victim's driver's license was still on his remains and his ex-lover easily confessed. The work had been in building the case when the numbskull decided to plead not guilty by self-defense.

Then the difficult ones started coming. It started with a baby found buried in a backyard – child victims were always the worst. Mid-summer brought the discovery of a head with all its teeth missing and a substantial portion of the top smashed into the victim's brain. On its heels, his first semi-high profile case cropped up when multiple bodies, decades old were found, being the remains of some sisters who had gone missing in the area while on vacation in the late 1980s. Each successive set of remains had taken longer and longer to ID, but the FBI's forensics lab pulled through each time with the victims' identities within a week.

Booth's solve rate continued its impressive pace.

Until August.

Another smashed skull had been found, though at least this time attached to a body, but the lab had yet to get back to him after a week. There was only so much that could be done until he knew who the victim was, and that short list had run out.

He knew the one person who could help him probably wouldn't. She had gone back to her avoidance tactic when he had tried calling her for help on the first smashed skull case. _What the hell. May as well get her voicemail so I can at least say I tried._

He sat forward and dialed her memorized number and waited.

A click told him the phone was picked up, but he heard nothing but muffled voices, apparently arguing over who was going to speak.

"Hello, this is the Jeffersonian Museum Medico-Legal lab, Zach Addy speaking. How may I help you?"

Booth rolled his eyes. He remembered her assistant. _Great, now she's making him answer her phone for him?_

"Zach, this is Special Agent Seeley Booth. I need to speak with Dr. Brennan," he was direct and to the point.

Sounding rehearsed, Zach answered, "Dr. Brennan is unavailable."

 _Yeah, sure she is._ His jaw tensed but he managed to maintain his calm despite his frustration. "When will she _be_ available?"

Zach answered without hesitation, "I'm not allowed to say."

"Not _allowed_ to say? What do you mean you're not allowed to say?"

"It means that someone told me not to say," the assistant said unwittingly.

"Would that someone be Bones?" He asked mockingly. His gut already knew the answer.

"Who?" Zach's brow wrinkled, baffled.

"Dr. Brennan."

Zach, not understanding the nickname used for his teacher, needed to know, "Why did you call her Bones?"

"Don't change the subject." Booth snapped. "Was she the one who told you not to say?"

"I take that as a yes. So yes, Dr. Brennan told me not to tell you anything," the young man admitted.

"About what?" he barked into the phone.

Surprisingly unintimidated, Zach braved on patiently. "I believe I said anything."

Booth rubbed the bridge of his nose, staving off the tension headache he was sure to follow. "Fine, don't tell me anything. Have her tell me herself."

"She doesn't want to speak to you."

"Just put her on Zach," he yelled. "Tell her I threatened you if you have to. I have a case that I need her help with."

Finally flustered at the thought of what a threat from an FBI agent could look like, Zach bumbled, "She wouldn't help you, even if she _were_ here." He realized his mistake the moment it was out of his mouth. He needed this conversation to end, and quickly so he wouldn't accidentally let anything else slip.

"What do you mean if she were…?" He cut himself off mid-question. "Where _is_ she then if she's not there?"

"Somewhere else?" It came out like a question.

Gritting through his teeth, Booth jeered, "You know I'm FBI and I can find out, right? You may as well tell me."

"You haven't gone through the proper channels. How do I know you aren't stalking Dr. Brennan?"

"Again, I'm FBI Zach. If I wanted to stalk her, I would just use my resources here instead of wasting my time talking to you." Booth had begun calmly but by the end he was shouting once more in the younger man's ear.

Zach took a slow breath to maintain his resolve. "My instructions were to not give you any information."

"Too late, you've already told me she's not there."

 _Damn, he caught that._ Afraid of saying anything else, Zach ended it. "I can't say anymore. Goodbye Agent Booth."

Booth pounded the phone receiver on his forehead in frustration. He had gotten very little information out of that annoying squint. His only hope for a quick case resolution was gone and he was stuck with the FBI's own forensic scientists.

Dialing anew, he called down to pressure the FBI squints for faster information.

It quickly became apparent they didn't have anything for him, further fraying his already unraveling patience.

"What do you mean you don't have an identity yet?" Booth's hand rested on his hip as he stood behind his desk.

"It's a difficult reconstruction," the tech defended the lab.

"No more difficult than the smashed in skull six weeks ago or the Carly sisters last month," the agent harangued. "What's the difference?"

Silence.

"Marcus, I can't do my job until you do yours." Booth complained. "I needed the ID, yesterday."

"It's the end of the workday. We'll prioritize it first thing tomorrow," the tech offered.

"That still doesn't help me _today_." Fists were clenched in exasperation. Yelling didn't seem to be intimidating them as much as it had in the past. "And it doesn't answer my question: why isn't this one done as timely as the others?!"

Pausing to swallow his own ego, Marcus quietly acknowledged, "We may have used a consultant on those cases."

"Fantastic, use them again." Booth smirked and slapped his desk at the win. "Why is this so hard?" If they had found a good consultant, his case would be moving again in no time.

"Well you see… the problem is," he seemed to be having difficulty sharing some difficult news.

"Spit it out!"

Marcus did as he was told. "Dr. Brennan is out of the country until next month and…"

"Wait, wait, wait," Booth held up his hand to stop the man from continuing despite the fact he couldn't see. "Dr. Brennan? The Dr. Temperance Brennan? From the Jeffersonian? She's been working on _my_ cases?" he practically squeaked.

"Yes. But…"

Booth interrupted, plopping in his seat as he felt his chest constrict. "You know what, I don't care. Just get me an ID."

He hung up without another word. It was suddenly harder to pull air into his lungs. Bones was working on his cases. He could hardly believe it. She was the reason he was able to be so successful at his job. Damnit, he needed her. As soon as she was back from wherever she was, he was going to cut out the middle-man and convince her to work with him directly, no matter what it took.

He had a project while he waited for the lab to figure out who their victim was. He needed find out where she had gone and how to get her back in his corner. That would probably involve figuring out what exactly the proper channels were at the Jeffersonian. At least now he knew why she hadn't responded to his email.

* * *

A trench had been dug alongside where the bodies lay so the living would not trample on the dead, jumbled in confusion, a mass grave of tangled limbs.

Each day was the same. Dr. Brennan, Dr. Hunter, and two grad students, working in pairs, would work in the trench, gently and methodically extracting a single victim at a time. Treating each set of remains as the individuals they were, the bones were laid reverently in simple coffins.

It was slow work, meticulously toiling to ensure all bones were accounted for and no one's bones were mixed with another's. Without fail, each morning would bring a few family members of the missing from the nearest village who made the seven mile trek to observe and report back to the rest of the village each evening.

Once a set was complete, Temperance would climb out of the pit on a rickety wooden ladder to work with the artistically-trained archaeologist, Dr. Summers, to begin the process of identifying the person that once was.

Once in a while, something – a picture, an engraved piece of jewelry, once even a prosthetic eyeball – would be found with the remains making for a quick ID. Most times, they started from scratch, first determining height, then gender, then age. Next Dr. Brennan analyzed the bones for skeletal indicators that could point to profession or lifestyle. Finally, she would help place markers on the skull for the artist of the group to begin his rendering, a sketch to pass around the local villages.

The day victims were identified was a great day. The camp of scientists would share a shot of liquor after supper, congratulating each other, celebrating that more of the missing had been found.

However, the day following was always difficult. Those days, large parties of mourners would parade from whatever villages the victims had lived to collect the coffins to bring home for a proper ceremony and burial. The villagers would want to embrace each member of their crew in gratitude for returning their loved one to them. Dr. Hunter, Dr. Summers and the two others would line up to accept the thanks graciously. Dr. Brennan would slip away from camp to respectfully observe the parade from a nearby hillside.

This day was a regular day down in the trench. A tent-like structure built with branches and tarps hung over the pit in an attempt to keep the work area slightly drier from the rain showers than the surrounding space. The two armed men assigned to their protection stood guard in the damp open air. The only thing missing was her grad student partner who had driven to the nearest city with Dr. Summers for more supplies and to collect their mail, so she worked alone to extract another victim from the earth. By late afternoon, the passing showers had turned into a steady rainfall.

The sky was darkening prematurely and the tarp struggled to do its job prompting Dr. Hunter to approach Brennan. "The East side is getting too slick, our tools keep slipping. How is this side faring?"

Continuing to remove the soil between the bones with her plastic spoon, Brennan conceded, "As much as I want to finish extracting these metacarpals, I don't think daylight is going to cooperate."

He stood watching her intense focus for a moment before excusing himself. "I'll go tell Ben to pack up for the night. Do you want any help?"

"No, I can take care of it myself," disappointment laced in her voice. She brushed her hands on her pants then stood tall as Dr. Hunter retreated, rolling her shoulders to relieve some of the tension that had built up over the hours of hunching over in the pit. A smear of dirt appeared on her cheek as she rubbed it on her shoulder to satisfy an itch.

Moving to cover the coffin with its cover and marking her place in the dirt with some pin flags, Brennan then gathered up her tools in her roll kit. She didn't use much: a pointing trowel, a hand brush and a few plastic spoons, preferring those over metallic instruments that could potentially damage the bones. Then hoisting the kit on the side of the pit, she climbed the rickety ladder and walked towards the tents.

As she reached the women's tent, artificial light bounced ahead of her and the sound of a motor joined in the gentle rain patter. Dr. Summers honked the horn as he and Jill passed by in the Jeep, parking by the generator attached to the shack posing as their kitchen and mess hall.

They would unpack the vehicle once the rain stopped so Brennan entered her tent to wash her mud encrusted face and hands before dinner.

A trip to the city meant fresh beef for dinner, a treat for their bean and corn heavy diet. Joining together in the shack, Jill served dinner while Dr. Summers passed out the mail. "Three for Dr. Hunter, one for Dr. Brennan, two for Ben…" she called out as she handed out their only semi-steady contact with home at the table. The others kept up a chatter of updates from the city and updates on the day's dig.

Brennan took her piece and continued updating Jill on the progress she had made without her, ignoring the archaeologist calling out names afterwards since this would be her only letter, always from Angela.

Dr. Summers interrupted Brennan mid-bite, sticking a second envelope under her nose. "Here's another one for you Dr. Brennan."

She took it silently, wrinkling her brow in confusion and setting her fork down to look it over. The stamp was American, the postage marking from D.C., but the return address was just an address, no name included and she didn't recognize the handwriting.

The small group grew quiet as they noticed her study the envelope in bewilderment. "Got a secret admirer you've been hiding from us, Dr. Brennan?" Dr. Hunter teased.

"Hardly," she hurriedly stuck the second envelope under her plate to avoid further scrutiny. "Did you happen to check weather reports?" She redirected the conversation onto Dr. Summers. There was no way she was going to assuage her own curiosity about the mystery letter with four others ogling to get a peek, too. It would wait until she went back to her tent.

"I did," Dr. Summers nodded. "The forecast says we should be dry for the next three days before it gets wet again. I suggest we get to bed early tonight so we're up with the sun to make the most of these few days."

A chorus of murmurs agreed with the sentiment and within fifteen minutes, the kitchen had been cleaned, and everyone had parted ways for the sleeping tents.

Jill always fell asleep quickly which frequently worked to the favor of the anthropologist who cherished her privacy.

Brennan sat on her bed and started with the letter from Angela. Unfailingly Angela wrote every week, somehow cramming a week's worth of gossip and news into a single envelope: what dates she had gone on, strange things Zach had said or done, Jack's latest creepy attempts at friendship, or amusing workplace anecdotes. This week, her letter included a story of Dr. Goodman getting so fed up with Zach's incessant talking that he had created a new rule for the grad student, claiming that he only spoke with other doctorates.

It never made her feel homesick or especially happy, but the contents were often entertaining and brightened her mood when she missed basic plumbing and electricity.

Tonight, there was something akin to excitement as she once more studied the second letter, searching for any clue as to its sender. Without finding anything useful, she tore it open and pulled out a single sheet of paper filled mostly with white space. The first two lines were typed and the sloppy signature signed with flourish.

She read:

 _Dear Dr. Brennan,_

 _I'm sorry I doubted you._

 _Regards, Special Agent Seeley Booth_

Apparently it _was_ in his power to apologize. She blinked in surprise a few times before setting it aside and turning out the light. It happened rarely, but tonight, she didn't know _what_ to think. Perhaps she would evaluate her decision to have Zach block _all_ his calls. Perhaps.


	15. September 2005

**September 2005**

Tuesday morning shone clear. Booth snapped his phone shut as he exited his office, heading to his truck. He had a case. Involving skeletal remains. If this didn't count as urgent, he didn't know what did. Time to put his plan into action, he climbed in his SUV and drove to the Jeffersonian.

He wasn't going to call ahead and give her time to make an excuse. He wanted to drive her from the lab to the crime scene on the pretense of going over the case notes, though he had close to nothing. His real purpose was to get her alone so he could question her about her Andy Lister character on the way.

He smirked to himself, remembering the exchange as he drove the short distance to her office. He had concocted his plan the moment he'd gotten off the phone with her boss the week before.

"Dr. Goodman, this is Special Agent Seeley Booth with the FBI. I was the agent who worked with your team last summer." He leaned forward on his desk, anxiously tethered to his phone. This man was either going to be the catalyst to something great, or the roadblock stopping his plans to get Bones in his corner.

"Yes, I remember you Agent Booth. What can I do for you?"

"Dr. Brennan has been assisting the FBI's forensic lab on a semi-regular basis for the last six months or so." He stated directly. "Your lab's contributions have been a great asset in catching criminals. I'd like to get a contract put in place to formalize the association between our organizations."

Goodman's brow furrowed as he took his time to respond. "Why now?" Only vaguely cognizant of past requests that had come in, he couldn't help but wonder why the FBI hadn't required a contract from the beginning if it was necessary.

"Excuse me?" This was not a response Booth had anticipated.

"The Jeffersonian works without contracts with many government agencies Agent Booth," he explained. "What makes you more special?"

 _Says so right in my title: Special Agent_. He bit back the sarcastic remark, instead appealing to Goodman's bureaucratic side. "I want to be sure I go through all the proper channels now so when a case comes up, my investigation isn't sidetracked. Red tape and all, you know." He fidgeted with his pocket poker chip while he allowed the other man a moment to think.

After a sizeable silence, the director finally asked, "How much of their time are you asking?"

"It's all dependent on the cases," Booth spoke truthfully.

"Hmm."

The typical squint tedium magnified by the administrative mind made Booth squirm unseen in his office while the silence ensued.

"This _would_ be good testimony for congress when it comes time to renew our budget," Goodman admitted.

"We do plan to continue using our own lab for the regular stuff," the agent tried setting the other man's mind at ease. "We're mostly interested in having a specialist in forensic anthropology available for our murder investigations. The FBI's lab doesn't have those kind of resources."

"Dr. Brennan is our _only_ forensic anthropologist with the expertise you're looking for," he spoke slowly. A second, less innocent motive for partnering with the FBI was taking shape in his mind, namely in the form of petty retribution for her lack of timely notice before she left.

"Is that so?" Booth played dumb.

"Yes," he spoke with pride for one of his own. "She has been in Guatemala identifying victims of genocide for a while now. In fact, she's coming back Tuesday morning and bringing one back with her."

Stilling in his seat, the agent was grossed at the idea. "A body?!"

"Heavens no," Goodman chuckled amiably. "Just a skull."

Booth squinted his nose in disgust but reverted back to a voice of calm professionalism. "So she will be available Tuesday to meet?"

"Better plan on Wednesday," her boss advised, "unless something urgent comes up. I suppose it would be a professional courtesy to alert Dr. Brennan and the team to their new roles before she gets back to the office," he finished speaking more to himself.

Booth cursed inwardly that he wouldn't be able to catch her off guard just showing up in her office.

"So that's a yes, then," he confirmed.

"Yes." Goodman sounded pleased. "I believe this will be a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Booth celebrated with a silent mini fist pump. "Great. I'll get that contract sent to you this afternoon."

When Dr. Goodman had shared the new arrangement with the FBI with the team, Hodgins smirked, pleased to have his chance to prevent government corruption, Angela grimaced, leery of what kind of facial reconstructions would come her way, and Zach pouted, annoyed for his teacher's sake, knowing she was going to hate this.

Now arriving at the museum complex, Booth got directions from the visitor's desk and took in his surroundings as he walked back towards her office. Spotting her assistant to the side using a microscope, he sauntered closer, loudly demanding, "Zach, where's Dr. Brennan? We have a case."

Without looking up from his work, Zach grumbled in reply, "Dr. Brennan hasn't arrived yet."

The agent stopped short and jerked his head towards the younger man. "I thought she was supposed to be in first thing."

Sighing with impatience, the assistant finally looked up from his work. "She missed her flight. Angela just left five minutes ago to pick her up at the airport."

 _Shit._ _There goes my plan._ His tongue subconsciously licked his lower lip and he rubbed his neck as he reassessed and quickly made a new plan.

Clapping once, he began taking backwards steps. "Fine. Go to Arlington National Cemetery with whatever equipment you think Bones will need. I'll meet you there." He spun on his heel making a beeline for the exit.

"I don't know what she'll need for current remains!" Zach called after him.

Never stopping, Booth shouted back, "Bring it all. I don't care," as he strode away purposefully, waiting until he reached his vehicle to make another call, this time to his buddy at Homeland Security.

"Gibson, this is Seeley Booth… Yeah, long time. Listen, I need a favor. A Dr. Temperance Brennan is flying in from Guatemala via San Salvador to Washington Dulles International Airport on Aviateca Airlines this morning. I need your guys to hold her for me… I just found out she missed her original flight so I don't have her new flight number… No, she isn't dangerous. I just need her held for questioning for me… She's bringing a skull into the country if you need an excuse… You and I both know it's legal, but… Fine, call it a favor. I owe you one… Thanks Gibson."

He hoped it would be worth it. He hated owing favors, especially to other government agents.

Arriving at the airport, he quickly parked in the short-term lot, glad for special law enforcement parking. He arrived with plenty of time to take his position, across the corridor from the TSA offices.

Intermittently strolling among the flag poles and pretending to read the book, he didn't have to wait long to see her swagger out from the concourse with her friend galloping alongside. What was it about her that he couldn't help but stare? She was still attractive for sure, but there were plenty of beautiful women in the world, most of them less infuriating.

"Oh shit," he cursed under his breath, his eyes widening as his target took down the TSA agent assigned to bring her in for questioning. It was so hot the way she could take a man down, but he had only been planning on getting her out of the trumped up charge of illegal transportation of human remains, not assault of a federal agent. At least his watching her wasn't making him stick out in the crowd. She had earned almost everyone's attention at the scene she had created.

He watched as they ushered her back to their offices, her friend trailing behind to get her own instructions from Homeland Security.

* * *

Brennan crossed her arms, watching her plane taxi down the runway without her on it. The drive from camp to Guatemala City had been slow and tedious with all the rain, something she and Dr. Summers had anticipated when they had started off before dawn. What they had not predicted was the flooding on the airstrip once they arrived causing a four hour flight delay.

Dr. Summer's flight was a continuation on their original aircraft, departing twenty minutes after their arrival in San Salvador. Dr. Brennan had sprinted across the near empty airport in an attempt to catch her redeye connection, arriving at the gate just as the jetway was pulled back from the airplane.

Now, as she watched her plane roll out of sight, the only sound to be heard was the tap-tapping of a lone gate agent working furiously at his computer, rebooking the traveler's flight so that he could go home for the night.

"Señorita Brennan," he called impatiently. "Su vuelo sale a 4:50 de la mañana. Necesitas algo más?" He handed her a new boarding pass for the next morning and asked reluctantly if she needed anything else.

"Gracias. Dónde está el cibercafé?" Glancing at her watch, she thanked the agent and asked for the internet cafe. She needed to find a computer to let Angela know her change in travel arrangements.

Pointing her in the right direction, the agent disappeared the moment she turned her back. Minutes past midnight, all the shops and restaurants were closed and she was stuck in the El Salvador International Airport, practically alone. Trudging past gate after gate, she hauled her satchel and duffel to the opposite end of the terminal where she found her desired computer bay.

Digging out her wallet, she inserted some American coins and logged onto her Jeffersonian email account. She typed a brief email to Angela to warn her of the later arrival time. _Hopefully Angela will open her e-mail before leaving for the airport._

She didn't dare allow herself to sleep lest she miss another flight, she went back to the bulk of her inbox. Her e-mail would provide at least twenty minutes of distraction. _Two hundred forty-seven unread messages!_ She immediately set to sorting through her e-mails. Glancing at the trash icon, she noted the additional five hundred sixty-three unread messages there and silently thanked herself for setting up the interview filter before she had left. The majority in her inbox were science alert bulletins, easily sorted into a sub-folder to read through later. _Eighty-one. Much more manageable._

Starting with the most recently received, a red exclamation mark noting a high priority message from her boss just the Friday before caught her attention.

 _Dear Dr. Brennan,_

 _Welcome home. Be advised of the following change in your absence. The Jeffersonian Medico-Legal Lab has entered into a contractual agreement to partner with the FBI, specifically providing forensic anthropologic support to aid in homicide investigations, beginning the week of your return. The FBI agent has requested a meeting on Wednesday morning, the time of which to be determined upon your arrival. I have alerted the rest of the team to this change._

 _Regards,_

 _Dr. Daniel Goodman_

 _Director of the Sciences_

 _Jeffersonian Institute_

Her lips pressed into a fine line. All motivation to work through the administrative obligation left her.

She logged off and stormed through the airport once more to her gate, sitting on the hard vinyl seats with a huff.

A contract meant she had no choice and she did not appreciate being told what to do. Brennan caught herself spiraling in a whirl of frustration and willed herself to practice some meditative breathing to regain control of mind.

There was no point in making a fuss at the moment though; she would have to wait until she saw Dr. Goodman. Besides, she had been helping the FBI's lab identify victims and weapons for several months before her departure. At the same time, she had had the freedom whether or not to take cases at her own choosing before. This new contract took away the option. What if the lab work became boring and she missed her old work, what then?

She plotted her arguments in her head for the eventual conversation she would have with Dr. Goodman when she arrived back at the lab. What was going to happen to her World War II victims? She had other obligations outside the Jeffersonian as well. She had her publisher she had to be accountable to, though, who knew how much a publisher demanded of an author for an already released book. Then there was the University, though her teaching schedule had been reduced to a single night class due to her conflicting schedule in Guatemala. And the guest lectures were optional. If she were completely honest with herself, teaching had become her least favorite part of each week.

Perhaps life would be too monotonous without some excitement added. As long as she remained in control of her lab, nothing would have to change under a contract. Besides, it could be enjoyable. She _had_ felt a certain level of satisfaction in helping take dangerous people out of society in each of the previous cases. Especially Gemma Arrington's case with the arrogant judge who thought he was above it all. Being out of the lab and connecting the real world to her science had been exhilarating. But now she would have no freedom in the matter.

Vacillating internal dialogue occupied her mind for the hours-long interval until her flight boarded, finally settling on an agreeable outlook by the time she settled in her seat. Satisfied with her conclusion, Brennan fell asleep promptly and did not wake until a flight attendant shook her upon landing five hours later.

Opening her eyes to the virtually empty plane, Brennan quickly grabbed her satchel and duffel bags and deplaned. Thirty-six hours on five hours of sleep was the only reason she didn't vent her annoyance as she found herself joining her fellow passengers in line at customs.

Moving faster than anticipated, she had hardly decided to have Angela bring her home to sleep (instead of going straight to the lab) before she found herself next in line.

Handing her paperwork over, the customs agent gave her declaration forms a cursory glance, asked the standard questions, "anything to declare Ms. Brennan?"

"Dr… Dr. Brennan and no."

Silently raising an eyebrow in response, the agent handed back her ID and went back to flirting with her coworker as she waved the scientist through.

Wanting no more than to collapse on a soft bed, she dragged herself towards the baggage claim to find Angela. She watched on amused as her friend flashed a gate agent. Brennan felt a small resurgence of energy, knowing her two-month excursion was done.

Until it wasn't and she had her hands up with three guns pointing at her. Too tired to care, she allowed herself to be led back to the Homeland Security offices while Angela trailed behind.

Booth followed with enough distance to not be noticed by either of them until Brennan had been taken into a room and Angela was told to wait on the bench under an indoor tree. He watched her slouch on the hard seat with a sigh and cross her legs. She leaned forward, propping an elbow on her top knee and resting her chin on that fisted hand while she looked around for a clock. That's when she spotted him.

"Booth?" Angela questioned nervously. Thinking he had been called in to arrest Brennan, she stammered excuses, "I swear, it was all just a misunderstanding. They didn't tell Bren they were Homeland Security until after…"

He put his hand up slightly to stop her. "I'm here to bring her to a crime scene, not arrest her," he interrupted. "Why don't you go back to the lab and I'll give her a ride when she's done here. We have a case."

She studied him curiously, noticing he was carrying Brennan's book, but his face was unreadable. Deciding to trust him anyway, she reluctantly agreed to leave. "I suppose I don't have much choice, do I?"

"Not really, no," he responded, desperately hoping he sounded more confident than he felt.

Walking away, Angela looked back just once to appreciate his physique, but by then, he had turned away with one hand at his hip, staring intently at the door _she_ was behind.

Breathing deeply, he tried to slow his racing heart. Now was not the time to show emotion.

Taking one last slow breath, he hoped she wouldn't figure out his ploy… or at least wouldn't refuse to work with him because of it. This was his now or never moment, no room for mistakes, he needed to stay in control. His future depended on it.

He entered the room showing as little emotion as possible.

Seeing her, he forced himself to look away to keep his chest from constricting too tightly. Looking up, he focused on the other agents in the room to maintain his composure until she turned to address him.

"What are you doing here?"

* * *

Thank you all who stayed with me for this. This is the first time I have ever put my writing out there for anyone else to read and many have you have bolstered my confidence in this area considerably.

If you find any inconsistencies with the show, please let me know. I have watched the Pilot and The Parts in the Sum of the Whole more times more times than is healthy I think.


End file.
